


What I Can Afford is Yours

by Marli_Toled0 (orphan_account)



Series: Amphora; the Good Son [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 1900s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Peter Parker, Beta Read Maybe Tomorrow but Not Tonight, Christmas Presents, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Gift Giving, Hanukkah, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Jewish Peter Parker, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pepper Potts Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Protective Pepper Potts, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Shy Peter Parker, Supportive May Parker (Spider-Man), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, spiderson, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Marli_Toled0
Summary: Peter Parker is the unnamed genius behind J. Jonah Jameson Ceramics & Porcelain Co. He is unmatched in passion, talent, or skill. Nevertheless, Peter is at the command of his master, Mr. Jameson, who claims that everything made with Jameson Co. materials or fired in the company kiln belongs exclusively to him.Poor as he is, how can Peter afford to give a gift to the only customer who knows that he creates the beautiful pieces sold at the shop, the only person left in Peter's life who supports him: Tony Stark?.......................................
Relationships: Edwin Jarvis & Tony Stark, J. Jonah Jameson & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Pepper Potts, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Amphora; the Good Son [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580446
Comments: 94
Kudos: 246





	1. Earth; Fabrile

The winter light from the tall workshop windows illuminated the room with such brilliance it appeared summerlike. Tony Stark knew better, having walked in from the street where Christmas had taken its full claim of New York, weather and all. Brisk air followed on his coattails, lacing his ankles. He lingered a moment and enjoyed the element of having not yet been discovered by the young man at the pottery wheel.

Peter Parker sat on the low stool before the wheel, a picture of the first moment Tony had seen him, the way he almost always saw him in the years after, as well. He was up to his elbows in wet clay, slopped over his skin like a lather of soap in the bath. Clay was smeared across his trousers and stockings also, in various textures and stages of drying. The apron he wore was down to its thinnest threads, worn and soft. Perspiration gleamed across his flushed ears and neck, heated from the nearby kiln.

Peter puffed and swiped the mop of his curls back behind his ear. They were too heavy, though, and fell again into his eyes, immediately. Fondness spread over Tony and he smiled reflexively.

“And so we uncover the reason your hair is always caked in clay.” Tony said and stepped through the threshold.

A grin erupted over Peter’s face. “Mister Stark, good day! I’m afraid that your order is not complete, sir.”

“Yes, I recall your skepticism yesterday about your ability to produce it in such a short turnaround. Nevertheless—“ He set down a shopping bag beside him. A long roll of gift wrapping paper stood out from it like a bamboo shoot. “I was in town and I don’t suppose you’d mind if I observe the young artist at his craft?”

Peter smirked and pumped at the wheel’s pedal a couple of times. It rotated until the tall, unfinished piece atop it was facing the opposite direction. The breathy squeaks the wheel emitted may have annoyed those unaccustomed to ceramics work, but it was pleasant music to Peter. Tony settled himself on an adjacent chair, which he never would have guessed that Peter had purposely placed there for him. “So you may laugh at the faces I make when I work?” Peter asked.

“Precisely so I may laugh at the faces you make when you work.” Tony grinned. He removed his hat and leaned forward, elbows hard on his knees. “I have so few entertainments this time of year after all. Too cold out to do hardly anything.”

With the wheel positioned the way he needed it, Peter leaned toward his piece. He sent Tony a gentle look of happiness. “You’re welcome, as always, sir.” Then he added, after a realization: “As long as Mr. Jameson doesn’t… mind.” His eyes darted across the room to the door that led from the workshop, through a short hallway, into the front shop, where his master was likely trying to wheedle a customer into parting with their money.

J. Jonah Jameson owned the ceramics shop, after all. Peter was studying under him as an apprentice. Tony had to restrain a scoff every time he heard the word. Peter’s talent was lost on such an uninspired ceramicist as Jameson. The way the boy applied himself, challenged not only his own abilities but the craft itself, had ensured that his skills exceeded what his master was able to impart early in the apprenticeship 

“What is this you’re throwing now?” Tony asked, trying to ease the boy’s mind. “Did I pluck the correct term from my memory?”

Peter laughed once. “Not exactly but I commend your memory. I’m not throwing this piece, exactly. Right now, I’m just using the wheel as a work surface.” Tony made an interested noise so he would continue talking. “This is a vase…” Peter said with modesty meant to conceal its true significance.

“Looks rather complex.”

“I’m being a bit ambitious.” Peter admitted humbly. “Have you seen the Jack-in-the-Pulpit vases that Tiffany’s sells?”

Tony gave him a look then decided not to comment on the fact that he owned many. They embellished the rooms of the Stark Manor like statues in Rome. “I’m familiar.”

Peter was quiet, distracted by the delicate work his fingers were doing on the billowing trumpet of the piece. His previous smile played across his face still and Tony was content to patiently wait for him to continue his story. “I expressed confidence that I could make one similar, but of porcelain, not glass, and Mr. Jameson said, if I could pull it off, I could have 8% of the profit.”

Tony soured a little at the low percentage. If the boy did the work, even as a back room apprentice, should he not received a higher pay? Perhaps Tony was biased, but it seemed like another way Jameson was slighting Peter. Tony dramatically cocked his head and put a finger behind his ear. “You showed what? What was that word emblazoned by your tongue just now?”

Peter receded into his shoulders. He nearly bit his lip, like a shy schoolkid, but repeated himself. “I showed confidence.”

“Praise be!” Tony exclaimed. “Well, it’s about time, kid. You should have confidence.” He studied Peter’s bashful, beaming face a moment more and then sniffed. “Is that standard for apprentice ceramicists, 8%? I would assume at least 12.” Peter chuckled. “After all, if you are the artist—“

That got the boy’s attention. “I’m not an artist, Mr. Stark. I’m only an apprentice.”

“Horseshit.” Tony said and Peter looked up sharply. “What Jameson sells is almost exclusively your work. Take the credit, if not the money, Pete.”

Peter licked his lips and seemed uncomfortable. “Sir, the walls are not so insulated… here in town.” His eyes were locked on the vase in his hands.

Tony saw the boy swallow and he wondered if he’d caused Peter trouble beyond just embarrassment at his rough language. He was quiet and watched. After a while, Peter’s expression relaxed. Fully engrossed in shaping the vase, Peter’s features became as malleable as the substance he was working with, fluctuating in now minute, now exaggerated ways. Tony’s amusement at the faces he made went unseen.

Finally, Tony pulled a book titled On the Manipulation of Minerals by Means of Thermodynamics from his satchel. “Shall I pick up where I left off, Mr. Parker?” Pulling at the ribbon bookmark, Tony opened the book to Chapter 14.

Peter didn’t need to look to understand the question. He excitedly agreed. “Yes, please, Mr. Stark.” However, before Tony started reading, Peter leapt from his stool. “That’s reminded me!” He hurried to the shelves on the far side of the workshop. Tony stood and followed him. “Look what I made, sir!”

Enthusiastically, yet carefully, Peter removed a fat-base, hat-sized ceramic vase from the shelves. Tony wondered at the Hungarian-inspired designs of moths and butterflies, constructed of floral and sylvan shapes, etched, as it seemed with spiderwebs -- such petite lines. This was the style that Tony knew so well, the one that portrayed the world from Peter’s fanciful perspective. Over the porcelain, with its intricate glaze painting, was an orchid-like design of copper. 

“I applied what you read me from the last chapter about joining ceramics to metals and, even though I don’t exactly have the correct tools, I was able to do this copper overlay.” He traced a finger across the orchid design as if Tony would miss it otherwise. “I’m certainly no metalworker, but I believe it turned out well enough.”

Tony glanced from the work of art held up to him to Peter and back. “Nice work, Pete,” he said encouragingly. “It’s beautiful.”

The praise, as it always did, sent the teenager into a euphoria. He began babbling, which amused Tony... as it always did. “Thank you, Mr. Stark! You know, I saw a photograph recently, in a newspaper at the library, from the Paris Exposition, of a ceramic vase overlaid with silver. Have you ever seen it? It won the grand prize at the Exposition and it was made in Cincinnati, sir! It was made at the Rockwood Pottery Company by a man who was born in Tokyo-- I can’t pronounce his name, sir, since I’ve never heard anyone say it -- but he must be the best in the world! All I saw was a photograph, but when I saw it... oh, sir, the only thing I could hear for a whole minute was my own heart beat.”

Peter ended the monologue with an emphatic shake of his head.

“You’re rather amorous over ceramics, aren’t you?” Tony asked and Peter blushed so fiercely that Tony laughed.

“I don’t know anything about that, sir.” Peter said which made Tony laugh more.

“Have you ever been to Paris?” The man asked after regaining some composure.

Peter snorted then quickly apologized. “I-I don’t really have the means, sir. Someday, though,” he added optimistically, “I’d really like to visit Brussels and Morocco… and Hungary, and, yes… Paris.” Every syllable seemed to mark the death of a little more optimism, the birth of a little more doubt.

What a crime for the boy not to study abroad with the masters. Or even in Cincinnati, Tony said ironically to himself. To Peter, though, he nodded slightly, and remained silent. He looked at the vase again. It was unusual, with a small main spout but several small openings disguised as orchid blossoms. “What is this piece?”

“It, well, it’s a, a hummingbird feeder.” Peter sputtered. When Tony stared at him expectantly, he shrugged. “I read about the concept, but I’ve never seen one. It’s meant to feed hummers, though. A little different than a regular bird feeder. I guessed a lot at the, um, form.” He swallowed awkwardly. “I thought Mrs. Stark might like it; she likes to draw birds to her garden, I know.”

“Yes, she does.” Tony said with a smile.

Peter looked down. Suddenly he murmured. “I wish I could give it to you, as a, um, gift, but...” He sucked in his lips. “It’s not mine to give.” Apology overwhelmed his eyes when they looked up at Tony again and Tony felt his heart constrict. He hid it easily, however.

“This is a business,” Tony said lightly. “I understand that. I may be a scientist, but I’m also a businessman.” Peter shuffled as Tony took the hummingbird feeder from his hands. “I’d be happy to purchase it.”

Peter didn’t look happy, but he said, “I’m sure Mr. Jameson would be happy to sell it.”

“Wouldn’t he, though? I will return shortly.” Tony said, heading for the wooden door that led through the company to the shop.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asked anxiously, but the man was gone. He walked back to the stool and sank down onto it. His hands hung between his knees for a moment. Then, he glanced at the shopping bag by Tony’s chair, admiring the gift-wrapping paper that stuck out from it. Even from across the room he was drawn to its beautiful design and cheerful color.

Sighing, Peter returned his attention to his work and waited for Tony to come back.


	2. Prices to Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Jameson failed to conceal the fact that he resented Tony -- resented him despite the fact that Tony had nearly singly funded his ceramics business the past two years. Of course, that had nothing to do with Jameson and everything to do with Peter's brilliance and artistry; perhaps that was where some of the trouble originated. 
> 
> Often his resentment poured over in Jameson's gruff and ungenerous treatment of his apprentice, Peter. Nevertheless, Peter's ingenuity and hope pushed him to overcome the obstacles placed on him by his master. If he couldn't use the company kiln to make a gift for Tony, he would build a kiln of his own.

Jameson’s barking was audible from the time Tony stepped into the short hallway.  _ The man sure is loud _ , Tony thought. Loud when he spoke to customers, loud when he relaxed at the gentleman’s club, loud when he gossiped in the street— loud when he was merry, angry, or skeptical. Tony doubted he ever adopted another volume. Then again, he had heard Jameson louder— when he’d heard him scream at the kid a few times when Tony approached the workshop door. Tony always waited a few minutes outside when he heard such beratement, knowing how sensitive Peter was to humiliation.

“What you have there is the best china in all New York and you can take that to the bank! The Brits like to think they own the china industry. The French boldface claim it their invention. But, every New Yorker knows that American ingenuity and skill is the Atlas shoulder upon which the finer world rests.” He prattled, asininely as Tony put it to himself, as Tony opened the shop door.

Jameson’s eyes darkened when he saw Tony enter from the back.

“Anthony Stark, well, well! Weren’t you here only yesterday? Just can’t quite get enough of our fine ceramics and pottery work, eh? In all of Great New York, there’s not another ceramics emporium that can contend with the tastes and demands of the…” His lips curled around his cigar in what Jameson must have imagined was a deferential smile. “ _Stark_ _dynasty_.”

“Good day, J. J.” Tony pointedly underlaid his tone with dismissiveness. “If I may interrupt your advertising, I’d be interested in making a purchase.”

“What a marvelous vase!” A woman said, hoping to sponge off the celebrity that enhaloed Tony Stark.

He flashed a flirtatious grin and corrected her, “I’m told it’s a hummingbird feeder. Likely one of the only of its kind.”

Jameson leered at the piece with an unsavory expression. He didn’t recognize it, of course; undoubtedly he was curious how his apprentice had managed to create such a work, and from where the copper had come. With a snap, he bellowed for the woman’s attention: “Innovation is in our name!”

Tony inclined toward him. “I’m sorry, whose name?”

Jameson shrugged off any insinuation. “It’s an expression.” He coughed out the words then bit down hard on his cigar.

“Hardly the season to feed the birds, Mr. Stark.” Another customer, a matronly lady, attempted conversation. She approached at Tony’s other elbow.

He nodded courteously to her. “True enough, but I like to be the first to own such rarities. Also, my Pepper will love it and that’s enough for me. Now, I think I’ll settle up here. What’s the price for this one, J. J.?”

Jameson glowered briefly at the informal name. It was replaced with a smirk and he said, “You’re right to proclaim it a rarity. As a man of humility it’s difficult to admit it’s worth lest I seem…”

“I‘ll pay what it’s worth, so tell me the price.” Tony clipped, setting the hummingbird feeder gently on the shop counter.

“$75 for you, Mr. Stark.” Jameson attempted to sound as though he was cutting Tony a deal, but Tony noticed how Jameson ground his teeth a little. The ladies standing beside them balked at the price, but Tony removed a bank book from his coat pocket. “Your patronage is always appreciated.” Jameson said.

“Happy to support true genius.” Tony said.

As Tony filled out the check, the two ladies hovered, hungrily clinging to this brush with notability. The matronly one lamented: “How is your wife, Mr. Stark? It is a shame she doesn’t venture into town often.”

“Yes, I should love to make her acquaintance.” The younger woman said, then she blushed falsely. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, of course.”

“You can’t be blamed for curiosity, dear lady.” Jameson interposed with some twisted glee. “Mrs. Stark is another of our city’s rarities. One would almost think Mr. Stark keeps her locked up in a bird cage.”

Tony tore the check from his bank book. “Rare and wonderful, you’re not wrong. Well, I will be on my way.” He lifted Peter’s hummingbird feeder mindfully and returned the way he had entered. 

Jameson watched Tony’s authorial figure, entering his own property with such ownership, and his nostrils flared.

  
  


Peter stood immediately when Tony walked into the workshop, holding his hummingbird feeder and a small receipt slip. His coated hands fretfully clutched each other. “Mr. Stark! I didn’t mean to suggest that you should buy it, I— I only wanted you to know that I was applying what you have read me from your book.”

Peter gulped after his verbal onslaught, trying to regain control. Tony walked toward him with a quirked eyebrow and a smile as he rambled. “I’m just thankful, you see, for the time you take to talk with me about chemistry and engineering and material sciences…”

Tony laid a heavy hand on the boy’s head. Peter stopped chatting under the weight — (wasn’t Mr. Stark pushing down a bit, the way a dog might to a pup?) — and looked up, around the wrist. “Finished?” Tony asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Tony moved away. “Pete, I am one of those individuals who are notoriously difficult to persuade one way or the other if it’s not my own idea. Even by you.” He added with smirking lilt. He sat once again in the chair that was designated for him. “Speaking of gifts,” he said as he rummaged in his shopping bag, “educate me. Does your family celebrate Christmas?”

Peter sat on the stool and busied himself with the Jack-in-the-Pulpit vase. Maybe if he ducked his head into his work he could divert this conversation from any offering on Mr. Stark’s part to buy him a gift. “Not traditionally. There is a small Jewish festival this time of year, but it’s difficult to celebrate it properly in New York, so May and I haven’t for years.”

“Why is it difficult?” Tony asked and Peter was touched by his politeness. There was no reason for him to show interest. Jews were not among the favored immigrants in America. Tony and his wife had already shown more than their share of sensitivity toward the Parkers’ heritage.

Peter splash water on his hands from the basin of the wheel and took sponge around the long flute of the vase. “More Jewish families are coming to New York, but it’s still hard to find things such as  _ menorah _ candles or … just other traditional Jewish goods.” Peter smoothed the kaolin clay, thinking about the “restricted” signs displayed in many of his borough’s shops. “Mr. Jameson did grant me the 25th off to visit my Aunt May, though.”

Crinkling sounds drew Peter’s curiosity. He looked over and saw Tony carefully wrapping his hummingbird feeder in the beautiful gift paper that fascinated him earlier. “Let me get to the point.” Tony said. “I would like to give you a gift. Would you accept it?”

“Mr. Stark—“ Peter weakly shook his head. 

With it safely enveloped in the bright crepe paper, Tony set the feeder in his shopping bag, along with the paper roll. “That should protect it… Allow me to rephrase: what would you like as a gift? Christmas or otherwise?”

“I see you take my wishes very seriously,” Peter said under his breath, but with no real malice. He knew this argument was futile. As Tony had asserted earlier, if it were his idea, there was no dissuading him. Fortunately for most, Tony was conscientious about others and very generous.

May once told him that for some,  _ giving _ was the most natural expression of love, sometimes so much so that they couldn’t comprehend another way to show it. To refuse their gifts was like a rejection of a piece of their heart. It was harsh to deny them. Of course, May was also the one who taught him that they did not accept what they didn’t earn; and if they were given a gift, they should give one in return. Parkers were poor in America, but that didn’t mean the were of low integrity.

Honestly, Peter knew how difficult it was to want to give and be denied; that was a favorite way to show affection for him, too.

“Well, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, fixing the lip of the vase with a fine loop tool. His speech slowed as he concentrated. His mouth also slackened in a way that Tony smiled at, secretly. “All I can think that I would ask for,” he said with a shy glance, “is a bit of that gift wrapping paper you have.”

After a moment of silence, Peter looked and was met with Tony’s unsatisfied glare. “What a boring request!”

Peter chuckled and hunched his shoulders. “I like pretty things.” He said in a small voice.

“And how would I wrap that?” Tony continued to ridicule. He retrieved the book on thermodynamics from beside his seat. “Hmm? With a second bit of paper? Like a wrapping paper  _ matryoshka  _ doll? Alright, Mr. Parker.” He lifted his pocket watch and checked the time. “I have thirty minutes more to read and then I’m due to meet Happy at the bridge.” 

  
  
  


When their time was up, Tony replaced the ribbon bookmark and stood. “Sorry to skip out in the middle of the chapter, but I’m afraid the daring plot of transitions between energy levels will have to wait until the next day I’m in town.” He unfolded his coat from the back of the chair.

Peter turned toward him, away from the kiln where he’s just deposited pieces ready to be fired, his face flushed. The pink only added to his guilty, drawn expression. “Perhaps we could restart the chapter when you return?”

Tony laughed, coiling his scarf around his collar. “Didn’t sink in?” Peter frowned. “That’s alright, kid. These are complex concepts. Not many have studied them, let alone fourteen-year-old ceramics apprentices.” 

Tony stepped closer, meaning to say goodbye. He always closed the distance between them when it was time to say goodbye, creating a sort of intimate space before leaving. Peter was grateful; he never knew when he’d see Tony again and these moments of familiarity encouraged him in his lonely time in between visits. 

Jameson didn’t talk to him much and neither did his master’s family, who probably preferred to pretend he didn’t exist. He wasn’t allowed in the front of the shop, so he never talked to customers. His days off (Sundays—  _ church _ days, Mr. Jameson said) were divided between domestic errands and going home to May for the afternoon, so there was little time to see his friends. If Tony didn’t visit him, some days he may not see another person for close to ten hours.

Tony said softly, “If you have questions, be sure to stop me next time. I’m happy to talk elements and equations until I’m blue in the face.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be around.” Tony said, vaguely. “Good evening, Pete.” He moved back and picked up his shopping bag. “Will Pepper know what to do with this feeder?”

Peter clapped his chalky hands onto his apron. “Well, sir, as I understand it, the homemade nectar is poured in at the top and the hummers eat from the little holes all around here.” He demonstrated with an invisible version of the feeder in the air.

Tony grunted a bit. “Pepper will figure it out.” He said, moving toward the door. He paused and turned back. “Oh, I nearly forgot. The man’s name is pronounced ‘Shirayamadani Kitaro.’ Bye!”

The door latched as Peter repeated out loud, as best he was able, and brimful of wonder: “Shee-ra-ya-ma-da-nee Kee-ta-roh.”

  
  
  
  


He was absently repeating the name again that night as he worked in the alleyway behind the shop. All his tasks for Mr. Jameson were completed and the workshop was cleaned as well as his own dinner dishes scrubbed. It was just past 9:30. Peter didn’t mind the late hour; he rarely slept a full night, prone to bad dreams, but also partly because the fewer lighted window in the neighborhood, the more successful tonight’s project was likely to be. 

Over five months Peter had kept back a penny or two from his pay each week to buy a small brick of dove-colored earthenware clay and a (very nearly empty) jar of (mostly dried) glaze that Mr. Jameson sold him when he’d caught Peter removing it from the waste. The only gift he could think to give Tony and his wife was a ceramic piece; in many senses, it was the best Peter had to offer. Besides, the Starks seemed to favor his work and that encouraged the idea. Though, when he laid out his materials in front of him, the righteousness of the artist in him turned to disgrace.

The clay’s impurities were conspicuous and its color was dull — nothing like the pretty and pure kaolin clay that he adored. So, he sieved it himself with a fine mesh and removed as many large particles as he could. Peter had chosen this clay not only because it was common and affordable, but because the earthenware should reach a mature hardness in low fire. Seeing as he didn’t have a kiln at his disposal, the lower the required temperature the better, Peter thought sardonically.

Mr. Jameson required that every piece fired in his company’s kiln should make money for the company. Whether it was Peter’s work or not, even if it was made of the inferior clay he’d purchased on his own, even if it was crammed in with several pieces being fired for the company, Mr. Jameson expected it to make a profit. “Fuel is as expensive as blood,” he proclaimed every so often, along with “there is always a price to pay.” And debates turned dangerous too often for Peter to safely ask again.

Honestly, it seemed less about money and more about some fault of Peter’s that vexed Mr. Jameson, one he didn’t realize he owned and over which he very well could have no control.

Ignoring his ash-filled stomach, Peter had molded a small figurine of a lovebird. Mrs. Stark, Pepper, owned four rosy-faced lovebirds as pets, so the shape was for her. Since all the glaze he had was a translucent, low-fire gloss, and he couldn’t adorn it with the delicate paintings he usually did on his china works, he took great care to carve intricate details with a pick.

He hoped that telling Tony of the ingenuity he’d employed to construct a working kiln in the alley from assorted junk would be gift enough for his friend, along with a successfully fired ceramic figurine, of course. Thanks to Tony’s discussions with him on sintering and chemical processing, coupled with the instruction Mr. Jameson had given him when he first began his apprenticeship four years ago, and what Peter’s brain was able to invent, he had a scheme for a makeshift kiln that might succeed.

To be safe, he’d baked the figurine, on a tray in the little stove he used for his meals. It was nerve-wracking work and Peter was very fearful that it was a foolish risk. Though, it did seem to dry the earthenware and the figurine remained so far undamaged.

Close to ten o’clock, Peter hauled a rusting tin drum away from the overcropping laundry lines, scratching deeply into the ice on the stones underneath with its coarse bottom rim. He set it near the back courtyard wall where there was a patch of soil. He lugged an assortment of fallen bricks he’d picked up from around the borough, victims of weather or age. In a large bucket he had ugly clay dug from the riverbed a few nights ago. That had been cold work! Now it was washed, sieved, and workable.

Peter struck a trowel into the ground, trying not to think of Mr. Jameson’s face in the morning.  _ Better to beg forgiveness _ , he thought. He dug a deep, bowl-like hole and another, more shallow hole, with a trench connecting them. Over the pit’s diameter he laid a thick, perforated lid he’d made with the river clay. The assorted bricks were stacked in a chimney fashion. Then, he used more riverbed clay to coat the chimney walls.

At midnight, his eyes were heavy-rimmed, but he persevered, knowing this was his only chance. Lifting the tin drum, he noticed a faint turpentine smell. He’d meant to utilize it to add height to the chimney, but decided not to risk it. Next, he recalculated the space needed within the chimney to achieve the temperature and reworked the firing schedule. He realized there would be no sleep for him tonight if he were to undertake this honestly.

Leaving the construction for a moment, he returned with an iron cooking pot and a grill. Hurrying, he finished the chimney, creating a damper with the grill. He laid his figurine inside first. Peter set the pot over top. The rest of the riverbed clay was molded over the trench, creating a tunnel. Then, he set the fire.


	3. To Find Each Other and Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it foolish to try to give much when you own so little?
> 
> Peter is discouraged and exhausted in his attempts to create something to give Mr. Stark for Christmas. Meanwhile, Tony remembers everything that drew him to Peter in the first place.
> 
> Trigger warning for this chapter: mild domestic violence (common for the time period)

Rounding on three o’clock that morning, Peter’s makeshift kiln blew the iron pot five feet in the air and launched it into the brick of the adjoining building with a terrible peal that woke the neighbors and the Jamesons.

Peter had fanned the little fire, huddled in the sharply cold air, ever since he’d lit it, to drive the updraft of heat into the kiln. Now and then he startled awake after dozing, stung by frigid mist or the responsibility of his task; but, the kiln was reaching its intended temperature by the hour, as best he could judge. He saw the shaky plume of smoke leaving the flue and assumed the construction was a success. 

However, as the heat built up so did an excess of fumes and the pressure was too much. The iron-pot-turned-missile blazed a moment when it hit the alley stones, the residual cooking oil alight in its bowl. “What _ the devil _ ?” Peter heard his master roar from above his head. Jameson leaned from the bedroom window, having been roused by the clangor of iron on brick.

  
  
  
  


“Jesus Christ, Parker! If I had known you were going to burn down the  _ goddamn neighborhood _ …” Mr. Jameson didn’t finish the sentiment but brought down his birch switch across Peter’s shoulders.

Peter sat humbly on his stool before the pottery wheel, hands curled on his knees, docilely accepting the chastisement. He was too forlorn to be curious what his master meant or if he meant anything, which was very unlikely. He swallowed the sensations of pain and sorrow lumping in his throat. His clay figurine — his only present for Mr. and Mrs. Stark, which he’d endured so much to create — was still outside in the wrecked kiln he’d made. It may have also been destroyed when Mr. Jameson had trampled his construction.

“And at this ungodly hour! How am I supposed to get back to sleep?” Mr. Jameson paced behind him. Peter glanced at the clock over the workshop fireplace. In four hours he was due to start work. “You’re distracted all day by that… by that smug ass, Stark, and you waste my time and resources making foolish things— hummingbird  _ whatsit _ my eye!”

Peter muttered as politely as he could: “Mr. Stark bought my hummingbird feeder— for a pretty price, I’m sure. And you did say if I earned you money, I could ‘follow my fancy.’”

Jameson bellowed, deafly: “Now you’re up all night menacing the neighborhood! Humiliating me… Even  _ committing arson _ outside my home!”

“It was not my intention—“

“Don’t talk back to me, boy!” Mr. Jameson stopped pacing and planted his feet. Peter’s heart shuddered a little at the tone. Mr. Jameson often yelled— Peter knew he was mostly a lot wind and less destruction — but at the moment, Peter was exhausted, and still shivering from the chill, and much too sad to defend himself. “You’re not half so special as you think... Just because you’re the pet of some popinjay snob.”

Peter felt a rush in his ears as his temper stirred. Although he kept his head bowed, his jaw tightened, and his voice was low like a crouching beast. “Mr. Stark has been very kind to me and you should  _ not _ badmouth him.”

However, Mr. Jameson had enjoyed the taste of the insult. He seemed fully awake now and invigorated. “That pompous milksop — he acts as though this shop is his.”

“He has nearly singly funded your business the past two years.” Peter’s voice grew taut. “And he’s been a faithful customer; what right do you have—?”

“I’ll not have some Jewboy brat question my rights.” Mr. Jameson snarled. “You’re here by my generosity, mind—“

“Mr. Stark’s generosity buys your bread and you spit on his name only because you envy his status—“

This earned him another harsh strike and he closed his eyes and composed himself. “I’m warning you, Pete!” Came Mr. Jameson’s voice.

Peter did stop then. Mr. Jameson held his means of living in his hand. It was not only the birch rod that threatened him. Without this apprenticeship, how could he provide his share to their household? How could May be proud of him as a man? Also, how could he practice the art that he loved, the one of which Tony claimed he would become a master? How else could he work with the expensive clays and glazes every day? Peter was testing Mr. Jameson too much. He gritted his teeth and willed his angry tears to hide.

Mr. Jameson was scarlet from his collarbone to his ears. He used the rod to emphasize his words, as if conducting an orchestra. “You’d better watch your mouth. Implying that I’m beholden to Stark…” His fingers gripped his jaw to stifle the rage. Peter glared at the ground. He wished Mr. Jameson would hurry up and go. “What am I envying, hmm? What? Unearned wealth and that strange, invisible wife—“

Peter stood from the stool and faced down his master. “Mrs. Stark is not strange!” He cried firmly. “She is gentle and brilliant and is always so busy yet finds time to contribute to the wellbeing of others. If she does not come to town it’s likely because she can’t stand the company of ignorant people.”

“What does a worthless sneak like you know? You mean to tell me _you’ve_ _met_ Mrs. Stark?” Jameson challenged.

A minute smirk leapt across Peter’s lips before he jibed: “Oh, you mean  _ Pepper _ ?”

The rod flew across Peter’s jaw. He reeled and was aware of a split in his bottom lip. Curling up on his stool again, he smoldered darkly in himself, but remained decidedly subdued.

“Goddamn it, Parker,” Mr. Jameson said with a quick look as though he might feel badly for striking the boy across the face. “Do you think I enjoy beating you? I try to teach you and you just don’t learn!” He strode across the floor, ready to exit the workshop. “Consider your wages for today mine as payment for your foolishness.”

The door slammed. Peter sighed from his place on the stool. He licked his lip before gingerly wiping the blood across the back of his fist. “What have  _ you _ taught me?” He scoffed and rushed outside.

The kiln he’d made was wrecked, stomped under Mr. Jameson’s boots in the commotion that followed the explosion. The neighbors had demanded explanations from Mr. Jameson, who was standing in the alleyway with his coat over his old-fashioned nightgown. Babies were screaming within the next house and soon the perturbation had travelled down the block. Peter had been ordered inside before he could explain himself let alone beg to be allowed to finish the firing.

Peter crept to the remains and dug with his furnace tongs. Unearthing his little figurine, he returned to the workshop to inspect the damage. He knew before he saw it in the light that there was no hope to save it. Even if it had sintered, it was useless to think that the ceramic body had not fractured in the botched cooling process. Peter confirmed this when he set the little lovebird on the hearth of the workshop fireplace. Miserably, he huddled on the floor next to it and wept until he succumbed to sleep.

  
  
  


Tony met the genius apprentice two years ago, sitting out in the sunshine to do his work, which he was not permitted to do. J. Jonah Jameson’s Ceramics had a distinct disparity between the quality of its pieces. Most were uninspired even though they bore no technical flaws. Others, however, were passionately conceived, albeit not without weaknesses. 

Tony had bought simple household items from Jameson before, choosing to have his ornamental china imported, and he doubted that the man had suddenly taken an artistic inclination. He would certainly never have hidden any ability of his that might be profitable. Tony’s passing curiosity was redoubled when he spotted a very small youth, sopping wet with clay slip, sitting out behind the shop on a crate, carving a design on a little amphora vase.

Tony stepped up to him and when the boy’s eyes tilted to meet him, he raised a gorgeously fired porcelain door knob handle, and asked: “ _ You _ made this, didn’t you?”

The eyes, like little round mirrors, went wide. “I— well— is it satisfactory to you, sir?”

“I bought it didn’t I?” Tony replied but smiled and the boy ducked into his shoulders. “It has fine crystallization.”

As if a switch were thrown, the kid began to ramble. “I experimented much when I mixed my glaze components, sir. I used plenty of frit and zinc oxide and not much aluminum. I had wanted to make a peach bloom glaze which I read about in a book, but the book didn’t have any instructions, just a description, and Mr. Jameson couldn’t tell me, either. But, when I saw the crystal growth on my test glaze, I thought it looked just like lace!” He paused, breathless, with a look of ecstasy. 

Then he added: “I don’t mean to boast, sir; I was just pleased.”

“Looks as though your experiments paid off. The crystals are fully rounded, so you must have held them at the right temperature for a long while.” Tony mused.

“Yes, sir. I gave it a long soaking time. I also was slow to cool down. I was so very careful with my firing schedule, sir. I made that door knob set there and my master put it up for sale. I’m happy you’re satisfied with it!”

Tony hummed, looking at the boy. He hadn’t expected such a thorough answer. He clicked his tongue and asked, “What’s your name, kid?”

For a moment he didn’t think the boy would answer, then: “I’m Mr. Jameson’s apprentice.”

“But you had a name before that, I assume. They still give those to children, right?” Tony ribbed. “Or are we going straight to occupational titles?”

“Peter.” He answered shyly. “Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Parker. I’d like fourteen sets more of these, just like this one.” Tony again held up the doorknob handle. “Would you be able to manage that?”

Peter stared at the doorknob handle and up at Tony and back. He did this several times while his eyes grew wet. Tony began to panic, but Peter said, “Exactly like it, sir?”

“Well, not,” Tony said, “precisely,  _ impossibly _ so. Just enough to match.”

To his horror the kid continued to well up in distress. “I — I‘m sorry, sir, I was experimenting greatly with the glaze composition and I think it was quite an accident that it turned out— ”

Peter looked as if he expected to be arrested for the confession. Tony hid his amusement and deflected. “It may have been an accident for you, but zinc oxide and silicon oxide molecules always bond at the right temperature. If the molecules can move around enough to find each other, they’ll arrange in strings around a zinc nucleus. Your very careful firing schedule is proof that you have a good understanding from which to work.”

“But, you see,” Peter said in a mousy voice, “I didn’t write down my measurements or all the components I used…”

“Well, that was silly.” Tony said. He was shocked when the boy flinched and began to redden across his eyes. Quickly, Tony dismissed the tears. “Good grief! It’s nothing to cry about.” He awkwardly put a hand on the kid’s head, if for no other reason, to hide from his crying face. When the boy’s emotions subsided, he sighed. “Tender-hearted, aren’t you? I just mean, always keep notes on your experiments. Okay?”

Peter nodded. “I will. Earlier you said zinc and silicon oxide make macro-crystals. I know I used lots of silica. Tell me more about molecules bonding and maybe I figure out what I did, sir. Working backwards.”

Tony laughed a little at that. He pulled up another crate to sit on. Peter jumped up and laid a handkerchief across it for him. Tony began to explain about heat work and chemical compounds as they seemed to relate to Peter’s crystalline glaze. 

Peter listened intently; it was evident on every feature. When Tony finished, Peter asked, “Do you know ceramics, sir?” There was a tint of worship to his words.

“No,” said Tony with a little laugh. “But I know a deal about material sciences. I'm a sort of mechanic.”

Peter laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Peter said quickly. Then, he shrugged. “It’s only that I know who you are and I think ‘mechanic’ is a funny way to describe yourself.”

“Oh, do you know me?” Tony’s mouth quirked in amusement and his brows opened. 

Hearing people declare who he was was an almost daily experience for Tony. If they were of an older generation, they called him “Howard Stark’s son.” If they were in his own age group, they talked about his wealth as heir of Stark Industries. And, if they were younger, they may mention his inventions in addition to his inheritance. He had no idea what a  _ child _ would say, but instead of anything he might have predicted, Peter said: “You’re Tony Stark. After you visited the Blessed Virgin Orphanage, they started giving us milk every day and meat for dinner. Everyone got a new blanket, too.”

A cloud of energy seemed caught in Tony’s face. He looked at Peter and muttered something like “is that right?” He readjusted his shoulders as though physically shaking off the sensation.

Peter gasped a little, excitedly, and said, “Yes, though, I was only there a couple of weeks while my uncle and aunt were located. They still lived in Philadelphia, you see. But, my experience after you came was much better and I’m sure it made a great difference for the boys who were there longer.”

Tony smiled a little. He sniffed and changed the subject. “You’re articulate for your age.”

This caused another blush which entertained Tony. Peter said, “I come from an educated family, though it may not look it. My parents were both scientists before coming to America. My father was a botanical chemist and my mother was an entomologist.”

“An entomologist, now? And a botanical chemist... My wife has quite an interest in both those fields of study. Well, more so birds than bugs, I guess.” Tony said thoughtfully.

“That would be ornithology.”

“Now you’re showing off.” Tony said and Peter giggled. The sound was a great relief to Tony. He decided to avoid any further conversation about the boy’s parents, not confident how prepared he would be for the potential topics or emotions.

“I still have a few drawings of my parents’. I copy them on my pottery.” Peter humbly indicated the beetle design carved on the vase and Tony had to crane to see it, the boy was too shy to show it properly. But he noticed the accuracy of the form. It was evident that he'd copied from a scientific drawing. Even though Peter’s hand was inexperienced, Tony recognized his talent. “Mr. Jameson said if I make him money, I can keep making pieces of my own design.“

“Hmm.” Tony said. “And what are your plans for this one?“

Peter’s eyes rivalled the sunlight. He gushed about all the designs he would carve in the leather hard body from maltese everlasting to moon orchids to bee-flies, and then he listed the colorants he would add to the glazes to make every carved figure its own color. Over that he would attempt another transparent macro-crystalline glaze “using the knowledge you just taught me, sir!”

When Tony left, he shook Peter’s hand and said he would be back for his fourteen additional sets. Pepper asked him about his day that evening and he just furrowed his brows for a long time. “I had a conversation on chemistry in a Brooklyn back alley with a boy whose voice had not dropped yet.”

Pepper didn’t skip a beat. She replied, “I’m relieved to hear you were productive.”

Tony returned the next month to see Peter. He had no interest in going into the shop, so simply entered through the workshop door. Peter saw him and instantly began chatting about molecular bonding. He ran and got three more sets of doorknob handles like the one Tony bought that he had successfully created. “Nice work, kid.” Tony praised. Peter beamed and promised to keep trying until he’d made eleven more to match.

The second time Tony returned after meeting Peter, he found the boy standing on tiptoe on the stool and pushing his entire arm into a vase he was throwing. Tony rushed over as Peter teetered on the stool. He caught him firmly around his middle, exclaiming, “What are you thinking?”

Peter thanked Tony for catching him, his voice thick with concentration. His little hands were still manipulating the clay. “Could you keep holding me up, please, Mr. Stark?”

Tony held him, scowling, but briefly. “That’s as tall as you are.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but Peter admitted: “I wanted to see how tall a vase I could throw.”

As soon as he was on the ground, Peter ran and retrieved six more doorknob handle sets. He apologized for not having the other five ready to sell yet. Tony nodded but was glad to have a reason to return again. He was captivated now.


	4. The Angel of Doubt Comes to Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter can’t bring himself to look at the petty gift he tried to make for Tony. With Mr. Jameson determined to take out his insecurities on Peter, Peter is becoming more aware of the significance of his friend’s generosity compared with the harsh “fairness” on which his life is dependent.

The lovebird, or what was left of it, remained on the hearth; Peter had no desire to even look at it. 

True to his sense of integrity, he woke a little before seven and washed his face, neck, and behind his ears, just as May had taught him. The fresh water was a pleasure to feel on his tired skin. It enlivened him enough to scrounge for breakfast before he tended to his duties. He toasted bread over the fire and he snatched an apple from the cupboard. When he bit into it, he felt his lip resplit.

Peter was reminded that he wouldn’t be paid for today’s work and he felt foolish and humiliated all over again— and very angry. None of these emotions could be reserved exclusively for Mr. Jameson; he was very decidedly embarrassed and angry at himself. All that work, all the loss, and failure— but mostly, the insufficiency— invoked such a feeling of frustration that it sat like a physical thing, like ulcer, inside him.

He slugged along most of the morning, through tunnels of rage, shame, and sorrow. Mr. Jameson didn’t appear that morning, which was a mercy. Most likely, he was trying to forget Peter existed until he needed him to do something. Even angry, Peter was far too diligent and in love with the art of ceramics to be lazy. He worked hard despite his exhaustion and was just as mindful, though not as inspired as he was any day.

Before lunchtime, Tony entered the workshop door, calling hello. Peter was so amazed to see him a third day in a row that he forgot to feel ashamed or irritable; he just smiled. “Hello, Mr. Stark!”

Tony returned the smile, stepping forward, until his eyes drifted down Peter’s face. His mouth went taut. Then, he locked an intense gaze with Peter, visibly filling his lungs.

Peter interpreted the grinding of Tony’s jaw and realized sharply that his lip must look pretty bad. He opened his mouth, but Tony charged toward the door into the shop. “Mr. Stark, wait!” Peter grabbed for his shoulder, to no avail; so, he leapt in front of him and tried to block his decisive strides. “Wait, sir, please! I need this job!” Tony halted, Peter’s hands on his coat front.

“Please.” Peter breathed, relieved that he’d stopped Tony. “I’m grateful that you would worry over me, sir, but, I need this job. And if you… well, I would certainly lose it.”

Tony gave a slightly pained expression then composed himself. He sighed. “Any other injuries?”

Peter averted his eyes. “No, sir, I’m really just fine!” Peter insisted. He moved back to the pottery wheel as nonchalantly as he could manage. “This is just how young men learn, you know.” Mr. Jameson had said this often; there was a twinge of bitterness when Peter repeated it. He ignored the look Tony gave him. “I wish I had known you would be here; I could have finished your order first, sir—”

“Hold that thought, Mr. Parker.” Tony said, retreating from the workshop door, into the frosty air. 

Peter tried to understand where he’d gone. He filled the absence with miserable thoughts and almost wished Tony wouldn’t return. He wanted to be alone. 

He peered at his reflection in the window and noticed the inflamed purple under his lip. Admittedly, it was an ugly sight. Peter hadn’t been concerned with it until now.

Tony did return, holding a handkerchief full of snow. This he pressed to Peter’s lip and instructed: “Keep this on a minute.” Peter began to protest, but he deflected, taking off his hat and walking away. “I wasn’t planning to drop in today, but I had to check the progress on a little construction project of mine in Queens—“

“In Queens?” Peter asked. “Oh! My borough.”

“Also, there were some legal papers Pepper asked me to pick up. I thought I would say ‘hello’ while on this side of the river.”

“Are you and Mrs. Stark planning another children’s home? We could sure use one over there.” Peter remarked, lightly. He was beginning to appreciate the cold of the handkerchief on his bruised lip.

“No,” said Tony, “but it’s not a bad idea.” He took a deliberative breath, seeming to have something to say. “I think I would like my order delivered, if that doesn’t trouble you.”

To be honest, it did; the Starks lived on a large estate on Manhattan Island. It was one of the few on the island with grounds. In this weather, the three-hour trek would be miserable. He would need to cross the bridge… He wondered which would be less hectic with traffic since he would need to take a cart.

The order (50 decorative tiles) would be too heavy to carry. (He disliked driving carts; he’d rather push the little rickshaw that Mr. Jameson never used than hitch up a horse.) Also, he would need to go down the avenues where proper ladies and gentlemen called for him to do tasks for meager compensation. That would prolong the journey. He loathed the anxiety of turning them down and hearing their scathing retorts. 

However, Peter would have rather had his tongue nailed to the floor than admit any of this. After all, Mr. Stark came so far to visit him and he had no obligation to Peter. If he, a customer, asked for a delivery then Peter should oblige.

“Of course, Mr. Stark.” Peter said.

Tony removed some money from within his coat pocket. He handed it to Peter. “For the trouble.” Then he drew another long breath. “Pepper has asked that I invite you over; she’s been wanting to see you.”

“Oh!” Peter exclaimed, lowering the handkerchief of snow. “I still have the bird encyclopedia she lent me.”

Tony took Peter’s hand and replaced the handkerchief. “Bring it when you deliver the tiles. Was it useful to you?”

“Yes, very! I created several stencils for china using the gorgeous drawings in it. One I used for your tiles— the, um, the lovebird.” He ended sadly, trying to disguise it.

“Ah, yes, Pepper and her lovebirds.”

“Yes, sir.” Involuntarily, his eyes strayed to the hearth.

“She’ll want to hear all about your stencil designs,” Tony said and gave him a warm expression.

Peter stammered a little. “I didn’t mean not to have returned her book by now.”

“That’s not why she wants to see you, kid. You’re not in trouble.” Tony scoffed. “There’s no hurry to come.” He put on his hat again, slowly migrating to the outside door. “At least not for you; I, on the other hand, am expected to fetch these legal papers post haste. She’s eager to look at them.”

Peter tried to return Tony’s handkerchief but Tony just shook his head.

He paused, his back to Peter, who, with a frown, realized he was looking toward the hearth, where the little failed figurine had been abandoned. Tony turned to him, interrupting any further awkwardness for Peter. “Send a messenger when you’re ready to deliver the order and I’ll send Happy with the carriage.”

“Oh no, sir—“

“Don’t argue with me, Pete. I hope to see you soon. Goodbye!” Tony said, then was gone.  
  
  


Peter did not send a messenger when the tiles were finished. He wrapped them in cloth and gently laid them in two strong crates. a canvas tied over the top of each. He retrieved his muffler, gloves, and hat and stuffed them into his coat pockets. The coat, he slung over his arm.

He’d eaten lunch and planned to return in time for the dinner Mrs. Jameson would prepare. A plate of dinner was provided in his apprenticeship contract, along with money specifically to buy food for his breakfast and lunch. Peter knew that most apprentices, especially ones in their fourth year with a master, as he was, were given better terms; but, May had had a very difficult time negotiating his contract. Mr. Jameson was a barterer and “half a bulldog in nature,” as May said. May was also tenacious and shrewd; she continued to push Mr. Jameson nevertheless. 

Peter was the one who wore her down, however. He was eager to begin ceramics work and too naive to appreciate the need for a contract that would protect him. At mercy to his bad luck, Peter found that Mr. Jameson was not very deserving of trust; the second-hand clothes his master provided needed mending (and may well have belonged to the man 20-30 years earlier), his wages were fixed for his first five years at 55 cents a week, and “opportunities for advancement” was merely a phrase on paper.

Peter went down the little hallway to the back entrance of the shop. He wasn’t allowed to be seen, but he gave a quiet knock, and after a few minutes, Mr. Jameson entered the hallway. “What is it, boy?” He said, though not as gruffly as expected. “Well? What, are you going somewhere?” His master indicated Peter’s coat.

Peter held out the money Tony had given him. “We have a request for delivery, sir. I have all other orders filled and ready. I will continue my duties when I return, but will not likely be back before six this evening.”

“Now hold your horses, Parker.” Mr. Jameson griped. “You schedule deliveries now? And handle transactions?” He shook the fistful of cash in Peter’s face.

Peter steadied himself. “Mr. Stark’s order is ready and he asked that it be delivered.”

“To Manhattan?” Jameson erupted. “Damnit, Parker! What makes you think you can spend the entire day running one errand?” Then his face restructured in a look of realization. “I see. You think you can shirk your responsibilities because your day’s wages are forfeit, do you? Stark can’t bail you out so easily.”

Peter had expected this. “No, sir. I planned to make up my hours missed tomorrow.”

“On the Lord’s day?” Mr. Jameson snorted indignantly. “I suppose someone like you wouldn’t know any better, but I won’t allow it. ‘As for me and my house…’” Jameson broke off— maybe because he was bored of his own spiel or maybe he forgot the rest of the verse— and glared at Peter. “You’ll finish your tasks then you’ll go.”

“There won’t be any more orders for the weekend, sir. And I can easily postpone firing and glazing.” Peter reasoned. “I can’t so easily postpone delivery until after dark.”

“I’m not interested in a debate.” Mr. Jameson said. “I am your employer; I decide what your duties are and in what order they’re to be completed. No one else.” Mr. Jameson’s tone carried its oppression into the silence that followed. Then he snapped: “This is a ‘yes, sir’ moment, Parker.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter said lowly.

“Shop closes at five tonight. Run your errand for Stark then.” Mr. Jameson ground his teeth on his cigar. He counted the money in his hand then eyed Peter. “Is this all he gave you? Did you keep any back?” 

Peter flushed in rage, but answered evenly. “Yes, sir. That’s what he gave me. I believe it is the usual charge for delivery.”

Mr. Jameson clucked his tongue and turned away. “I just can’t put anything past you.” He disappeared into the shop.

Choking on fury, Peter returned to the workshop. His entire right cheek was sucked between his molars as he tried to control himself. Any feelings of being pathetic or poor vanished; he stood now, shining with righteous indignation. 

He looked around the workshop. Here were all his tools, his materials— his house items, where he slept and washed, were in the corner— and his many artworks, in every stage of creation, lined on the shelves. This space was his. Why shouldn’t it be? Mr. Jameson hardly made ceramics anymore. Peter designed, crafted, and fired everything that went into the shop.

He marched to the shelf of ceramics that were shop-ready. Ready for Mr. Jameson to claim. Ready to be priced. Ready to be sold to someone who had money, someone _higher_ than himself.

Peter let the bitterness of that last thought fade. He was happy that another person could find beauty and value in his work. It was so difficult, especially after all his effort to understand the craft, to pour out his passion in making a piece and then relinquish it. But, after a while he learned to let the work and the sliver of himself indwelling it to leave him. It lived on in another’s world and that was satisfying in itself.

Standing now before his vases and china and figurines, nonetheless, Peter wondered if he truly had no rights to them. He just wanted one. It wasn’t even for himself. True, Mr. Jameson purchased the clay, components, and fuel for the kiln. Peter was under contract to him. But, after four years, and undercompensation, surely Peter had earned one vase to keep as his own.

The Jack-in-the-Pulpit vase caught his attention. He had succeeded; it was elegant, sleek, like Tiffany glass. Using an iridescent glaze, he made its delicate stem lush green and the blooming hood he brought to a faux gold, refiring until it was right. Mr. Jameson would fetch a handsome price for it and he would make his eight percent. That was the way of things: not generous, but fair according to the terms.

As he stared at the creation, he felt a soft sensation touch his brow. It enveloped his head and blurred his thoughts like liquor beclouds one’s vision. He was reminded of the Angel of Death whose spirit touched the firstborns of Egypt and they never awoke again. Maybe there was also an Angel of Doubt whose spirit was settling on him now.

Then Peter saw the vase adjacent to the Jack-in-the-Pulpit. He’d also used an iridescent glaze for this one, but it was opalescent and he had adorned the porcelain body with an underglaze painting. The scene was of dozens and dozens of midland hawthorn plants and a large marbled-orb weaver. It was certainly the best rendering of the spider he’d ever managed. 

The vase was stylized, but was an amphora form, highly decorative, with a wide middle and delicately tapered bottom that led into a gilded base. The two handles were also gilded with iron treated and polished to look golden. Peter had fashioned it after the Sevres vases of thirty years ago. His was not so skillfully and wonderfully created, but it had challenged him and he was satisfied— no, he was proud of it.

_What was that word emblazoned by your tongue just now?_

Peter took the vase in both hands. Mr. Jameson had not yet seen it. With his soul as quiet as a grave, he carried it across the workshop to the corner where he slept and opened his basket of linens and swathed the vase deep within the sheets, concealing it completely. Then, he refitted the wicker lid and returned to the kiln to begin a new firing schedule. 

The heat had its own smell and he thought it matched perfectly how he felt.


	5. A String of Pearls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Peter arrives, through the bleak and biting cold, at the Stark Mansion, he realizes that their house is full of guests for their annual Christmas Party. Feeling desperately unfit to be there, Peter tries to leave, but Pepper and Tony won't let him. What follows is a night of complete joy that Peter has not felt in a very long time.

It was not proper gentlemen and ladies that called out to Peter as he traveled through the frigid dark. They were in their homes, having their dinners; instead, it was figures hiding between the lamp lights. Peter made it clear that he carried no money and the goods in the cart were of little value to these individuals. “Just building tiles,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. 

A few times he was met with unsavory remarks, whether insults or vaguely lewd comments. But, they left him alone, so perhaps they believed he wasn’t worth the effort. His clothing certainly did not suggest wealth; he looked poorer than Job’s turkey, he thought derisively.

May had indoctrinated him against walking through the city after dark, and alone. Or, at least she had tried. “You might be stolen and put to work in some factory. How would I be able to find you then?” But, Peter had a dangerous sense of optimism. It wasn’t exactly hubris; he just doubted anything would happen that he couldn’t handle. May claimed his reckless optimism would prove more lethal than he seemed to think.

Around the time he’d reached Brooklyn Bridge, he remembered that he had only three hours of sleep the prior night. His body ached— his eye sockets more so than his legs, even. Not feeling safe enough to stop and rest, he stubbornly labored on. After the second hour, the cold penetrated his deepest layers of protective wool and cotton and his bones felt rigid and numb, and there was a chilly waltz across the perspiration on his skin.

Punishing drafts off the East River lashed his hat from his head when he crossed. He didn’t even see where it landed. So, he muffed his ears with his shoulders and occasionally passed a mittened palm over one at a time. Fortunately, the wind was snuffed out by the tall buildings when he exited the bridge and he distanced himself from the river.

When he finally made it, panting, to the Stark mansion on 5th Avenue, he felt burns from the wind sliced across his cheek. Nearing, he noticed several carriages by the stable. That’s when the dread began to climb up his guts. In the lantern light was Harley Keener, one of the stable hands, carrying feed inside. Peter heard many more horses than usual. He stopped in front of the iron-wrought gate, though the towering, ornate door had been left open. He called to Harley, “Good evening!”

Harley peered into the blackness before finding Peter in the spectral streetlight. “Hi, Parker! What are you waiting for? I’m not going to check your papers or anything.”

Peter passed through the entrance of the gate, pushing the rickshaw onto the cobblestone driveway. “I have a delivery.”

Harley yanked his neck toward the mansion. “Guess you’d better deliver it then.” He headed into the stable with his load.

Peter left the rickshaw and followed Harley inside. Even the little warmth of the stables was a relief, though the tender skin of his ears only hurt when it enveloped them. “Why so many carriages tonight? Do Mr. and Mrs.Stark have guests?” He asked anxiously.

Harley set down the feed bags. He looked at Peter in the light and muttered, “You look like something from the Brothers Grimm.” Then he shook his head, composing his thoughts. He answered, “That’s right. It’s their Christmas party tonight.”

Peter sunk, almost physically, into dejection. “I didn’t realize.” He sighed, tears behind his eyes. Three hours in the bleak and bite… “Could I stay in the stable with you until I thaw?”

Harley looked at him, puzzled. “It’s no skin off my nose, but— ”

The sound of the stable door cut off Harley’s reply. Peter turned and saw Ms. Friday standing, looking at him. Peter didn’t know what Ms. Friday’s title was among the staff, but she seemed to be in charge of many, varied tasks for Mr. and Mrs. Stark and could appear anywhere, at any time. Her expression did not betray any surprise as she regarded him. In fact, it was always just as imperturbable, though pleasant.

“Good evening, Mr. Parker,” she said.

“Good evening, Ms. Friday. I’ve come to deliver Mr. Stark’s order.”

“I will alert the Boss that you’re here.” Ms. Friday said affably.

“No, please, Ms. Friday—” Peter nearly lurched toward her receding form.

She paused briefly, glancing over her shoulder. “I am required by the Boss to inform him whenever you visit the mansion.”

She was gone. Peter flapped his arms to his sides. Harley watched him and rolled his eyes. “You’d better go in the house,” he said, “Mr. Stark’ll read you the riot act if you don’t.”

Reluctantly, Peter went. He navigated around to the back of the house, catching glimpses of electric lights from the windows. There was movement and music. He reached the kitchen door and heard the bustle. It didn’t help his nerves, but he couldn’t bear the cold anymore.

He pushed open the door. There was so much activity that he went unnoticed for nearly ten minutes. Peter welcomed it, however; he closed his eyes several times, breathing in the comfort. He let the baking air coax him back to life. Even his ears, which were in so much pain, began to soothe. He opened his eyes and saw the cook, Ms. Karen (she’d never revealed her surname, though he’d asked) wave at him in greeting.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he said over the clink of porcelain and bone china. The staff were preparing and carrying out dishes of all sorts. Peter recognized most of the dishes as his work. He felt enraptured and somehow fearful— there were many guests, many fine and powerful people who must see his ceramics here.

Ms. Karen didn’t have the time to spare for him, but quickly replied, “No intrusion, dear!” Then she attended the goose flambe before her.

Peter decided he was in the way here. He sidled around the prep stations and staff, moving together, almost spiritually, like a herd of wild horses. He was a boulder in their path. Finally, he cut through and entered a hallway off the kitchen. He sighed. Then, a figure who seemed to materialize from the walls confronted him.

“Good evening, Mr. Parker.”

“Oh! Mr. Jarvis, good evening!” Peter said, jolting.

Mr. Jarvis was the estate’s senior butler and was just as enigmatic and even-tempered as Ms. Friday, though he seemed to better embody the authority he bore in the household. Ms. Friday, though Peter didn’t know her age, seemed much younger and too outspoken than a person in her apparent rank should be. To be fair, Mr. Jarvis was just as likely to spar verbally with Mr. Stark. Peter supposed he had the advantage of being older and male; it wasn’t anything Peter desired for himself, necessarily.

“My master seems to be under the impression that he’s engaged in a game of hide-and-seek with you to which he did not acquiesce.” Jarvis said. “Would you kindly accompany me in order to be ‘found’? It would cure his anxiety, I believe.”

Peter sighed. “I did not want him to leave his party over me. I was only dropping off an order.”

“It seemed Mr. Stark was rather elated to go search for you.” Jarvis replied. “Until, of course, you couldn’t be found.”

Peter knew there was no escaping, so he followed Jarvis through the hallways. Jarvis avoided the ballroom and dining hall where the guests must be; Peter appreciated his considerate nature. 

Clouds of sound drifted through the corridors. The guests’ cries of merriment and the commotion of their company didn’t sound at all unapproachable to Peter, like that of some crowds he’d overheard from the shops and restaurants, or the mansions where May used to visit as a washerwoman, and he would help carry unwieldy baskets of clothes, before she found work full-time as a seamstress. Peter found himself imagining they were a group of kind people.

They entered the grand foyer of the Stark mansion, with its cascading stairway leading up three stories, almost to the heavenly body of a chandelier on the ceiling. Peter had visited a handful of times in the past two years, particularly after Pepper had asked to meet him. He’d never allow familiarity to steal his awe of the beauty of this house, however. 

Aesthetically, it was unrivaled. Pepper, an avid admirer of art in every medium, had built a collection of paintings, rugs, sculptures, and every kind of decor, though it was tastefully arranged, not a bit garish. Of course, there were also tall houseplants and wandering, potted vines, and many vases. Some of the vases were his. Seeing them displayed in this splendor was the realization of his artistic passion. He didn’t remember the pieces looking so fine as they looked in the Stark mansion.

Where Pepper had adorned the beautiful house, Tony had designed its architecture. Peter often marveled at the mouldings, curved glass windows, and the sharply arched door panels. He could imagine Tony feverishly designing every detail of this house, likely forgetting to eat or sleep. It seemed like him.

“Peter!” Pepper’s voice came around the stairwell before he even saw her. Jarvis and he paused and turned to her. She stepped quickly in her heeled boots, yet was graceful and proper as always. She took his hands, squeezing, but her expression fell sharply and she let go. “Who did that to you?” Her voice was flat as she examined him.

(Jarvis took his leave silently, heading outdoors.)

Peter remembered his lip and shrugged. “It-It’s really nothing, Mrs. Stark. I’d quite forgotten it, honestly.” He chuckled, hoping to dismiss the topic. In his head, he heard himself addressing her so informally, just to provoke Mr. Jameson. Suddenly, guilt flipped his stomach.

Pepper retreated a step, her features ironing out, and she inhaled through her nose. “Did your master raise his hand to you again?”

“I quite deserved it, ma’am. I said something foolish specifically to vex him and he got very rightfully angry.”

This did not assuage her ire. She spoke curtly. “A grown man who would strike a child — and  _ across the face _ — over  _ words _ ,” she said, “is an insecure idiot.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter said, failing to hide some amusement.

“Should I address this with him?”

“No!” Peter startled. “No, it’s truly not anything at all.”

Pepper softened. “Well… I’m so happy you’re here! I had feared you wouldn’t make it.”

Confused, Peter asked, “Was I expected  _ tonight _ , ma’am? Mr. Stark told me to come any time with the order, I had thought…”

Pepper melted into perplexity as well. “He didn’t tell you about the party?”

At that moment, Tony entered from the main doors, bristling in the cold air. He saw Peter and an exasperated expression overtook his entire countenance. “ _ You _ were told to send a messenger.” He scolded as he approached. “And ride over with Happy.”

Peter tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry, sir. I was unable to leave the shop until closing.”

“Tony,” Pepper said. “Did you not invite him to the party?”

It was Tony’s turn to look puzzled. “Well, not in those  _ exact _ terms. I remember you saying he would likely feel uncomfortable.” Pepper frowned in accusation, so he added, to defend himself: “I assumed you would not wish him to be uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t mean don’t invite him!” She said. “Only to not pressure him to attend.”

“Well, damn, Pepper,” Tony said, completely out of control by this time, “I don’t read minds!”

Peter was backing away from them inch by inch, toward the exit. Pepper noticed and closed the distance. “Oh, Peter, won’t you stay? I’ve wanted to see you since my trip to Germany. I saw so many things I’d like to tell you about.”

“I'd like to hear about your trip,” Peter said haltingly, “but, I’ve come from the shop, and I haven’t washed, and I don’t belong—”

“I won’t allow you to walk back.” Tony declared. “Whether you attend the festivities or not. You already look like an alarm clock with those copper bells.” His finger outlined in the air Peter’s ears, which were still red as a fire engine.

Peter nodded humbly. “I understand, sir. But, I can’t impose.”

“Impose?” Tony scoffed. “You don’t seem to understand. You’re  _ imprisoned _ .”

Pepper stepped in and said, “Peter, you’re always a welcomed guest. And I” — she sent a side glance at Tony— “always intended you be here tonight, with the rest of our friends.”

“I-I-I am not properly dressed.” Peter began to back away, toward the exit. His helplessness was shaking and his voice like a disturbed chord.

“You can wear something of Tony’s.”

“It won’t fit!” Peter shrilled in desperation. Embarrassed by his own behavior, he apologized but ogled the door over his shoulder. “I appreciate the invitation, ma’am, truly, but I must be going back to the workshop.”

“Peter,” Pepper said with ominous sweetness, and he slowly pulled his eyes toward her again, “I’m not letting you leave this estate. Not without seeing how your incredible artworks have enriched my new garden.”

Tony leaned toward him and muttered. “It’s exactly as menacing as it sounds.” Peter looked at him in surprise. “Less painful to do what she says, kid, believe me. Besides, I have a way to compromise, if you can trust me.”

Peter actually laughed. “I will, though, I’m not so sure I should.” To this, Tony smirked.

Pepper said, “You don’t need to overextend yourself, just stay, eat, and rest.”

Seeing Peter’s meek nod, Tony turned to Mr. Jarvis. “Will you have Happy draw a bath in my room and look for something that Mr. Parker can passably wear, something on the smallish side? Ask Friday to prepare another guest room. Also, we’ll need a drawing room for a less-socially-strenuous visiting space. Thank you, J.”

Pepper beamed at Peter. “I will be waiting and will go to you when you are ready.” She said before disappearing around the staircase again.

Peter listened to her footsteps, to the swell of music, and the laughter of their friends. He felt pure joy to be considered among them, but knew, absolutely, of the separation between him and this society, the separation between him and the Starks, too. Was it wrong, though, to let Tony and Pepper gather him to themselves, as closely as they could? Who was truly slighted, if that was what they wished to do? Peter followed Jarvis up the staircase, glimpsing Tony wink at him before he went.

  
  
  


Peter did not admit that he fell asleep in the bath. It was only briefly— or, so he assumed. The water cradled him perfectly. The smell was so different than the water that he used to wash at the workshop, which was sulphuric. No, this water smelled like oatmeal and bergamot. Relaxation for his horribly punished muscles bloomed into sleepiness. He imagined this was life’s most natural state, being somehow suspended in gentle sensations.

He roused himself and dried with a soft towel. Mr. Hogan — or, Happy, as Mr. Stark called him — had set out a tin of talcum powder and Peter was very amused. He hadn’t likely used talcum powder after a bath since he was a toddler. There was also a bottle of cologne, which looked too expensive to touch, so he almost didn’t. The thought that he should present himself as properly as possible, in all aspects, encouraged him to use it.

When he stepped out of Tony’s bedroom, Ms. Friday was standing there. She led him to a quiet room that he recognized, one of the drawing rooms on the second floor. She said, “I will inform Mrs. Stark that you are ready.”

Pepper entered a few minutes later. “Feeling human again?” She asked and he emphatically agreed. In fact, he hadn’t ever felt like this. She looked him over with a seeming pride. Her eyes settled on his outfit and she blinked suddenly. “Oh!”

“What’s wrong, ma’am?” Peter asked and wrung his hands; he thought she must have realized he didn’t belong in fine silks and tweed, but she only smiled at him.

“Nothing at all is wrong, dear. I recognized the outfit is all.”

“Is it alright that I wear it?” He played with the collar nervously.

“Perfectly.” She replied. “As long as you like it.”

“The trousers are a bit long.” Peter apologized as if sorry his body didn’t fit the clothes. “But the suspenders help and the waist fits very well. The shoulders of the shirt, too. I thought they’d be too broad.”

Pepper laughed and they left the drawing room. “Come, I am so eager to show you my new winter garden!”

Tony, coming up the stairs, found them. “Look at you!” He exclaimed. “Adam, emerged from the earth.” A glimmer of pride, such as Pepper had shown, was in his eyes.

"Bring back any nostalgia?" Pepper asked him.

Tony gazed at Peter in the outfit a moment longer, then he smiled distantly. "Yes, it does."

“Tony,” Pepper said, “you better go back with our other guests. Both hosts shouldn’t leave at one time.”

“Why must I attend to them? This is my house.” Tony said very simply, sounding like a defiant child. “They have food and entertainment. They’ll keep.”

“The moments you want and don’t want attention are very inconveniently timed.” Pepper remarked. “Rhodey’s in there— cling to  _ him _ for a little while. Follow me, Peter.” 

They climbed toward the third floor as Tony muttered petulantly on his descent: “But he’s telling  _ railway _ stories…”

  
  
  


The night was a succession of wonder and happiness that Peter had not remembered feeling. 

Pepper walked him through her  _ jardin d’hiver _ , an open room, heated centrally, with plants of every height and flowering season. Some were in giant planters but some were rooted in actual soil, like a rug of garden had been transferred to the third floor. The ceiling was a dome of windows and Peter imagined how dazzling the sky must look during the day. One might even forget they were in the city.

“How amazing—” He gasped.

Pepper said, “This is Tony’s Christmas present to me. Although, he gave it to me in November. He knows how hard the bleakness of winter in the city is on me.” She walked to a line of hanging string-of-pearls. “He rushed to build it while I was overseas.”

Peter gave her his attention again and asked, “How was your trip to Germany, Mrs. Stark?” 

Pepper replied with a giggle that the business aspect was dull but productive; then she unravelled a tale of the mountains and skiing, concert halls, foods that reminded Peter that lunch was hours ago, and castles in the country.

When their conversation ended, Pepper ran her hand through the hanging stems with their plump leaves. “Someday, we should go together. Peter,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’d like to give you a gift.” Before the full word “no” could form in his mouth, (of the phrase “no, please, ma’am; you don’t need to”), Pepper cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t refuse me, Pete.” So, he silenced himself. “I’ve already decided that I want to give you a string of pearls, but you tell me if you’d rather have the plant or the necklace.”

To illustrate, she removed an actual string of pearls from around her neck and held it up to him. Peter chuckled in exasperation. “I would be happy to receive the  _ plant _ , Mrs. Stark!” He creased his brows as if to plead she not to give him something as valuable as pearls.

Pepper smiled knowingly and returned the necklace over her ginger hair. “Just as you like, then. I’ll have one ready for you before you leave in the morning.” Then she said, “Let’s go enjoy the feast. You haven’t eaten, I suspect?” He blushed a little and she took his arm, linking elbows. “We’re going to have to talk, you know, about walking three hours in the blistering wind on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter said, but he was distracted by the sight of his hummingbird feeder hanging from the branch of a fragrant olive tree.

  
  
  


Friday brought them a trolley of dishes from downstairs and served them in the drawing room. Peter was not used to being served and sat rigidly until Friday was gone. He ate plate after plate of goose flambé, onion sauce, apple and almond dressing, baked potatoes, seasoned greens, baked squash, and then, plum pudding and decaf coffee. 

Pepper retrieved a box of Swiss chocolates that Friday had brought with the trolley, though, obviously not from the kitchen. This was Pepper’s special treat she shared with Peter while they played at tongue twisters. Peter was just attempting “Some shun sunshine; Do you shun sunshine? The sun shines on the shop signs…” and Pepper was pink from giggling, when Tony strode in the drawing room. 

“My turn,” he declared. Pepper rolled her eyes but told Peter she would return.

Tony asked to introduce Peter to someone. As Peter’s knees crowded together in an anxious reflex, Tony explained: “He’s just as shy and gifted as you are and if you two could pry yourselves from your shells long enough, I’m sure you’d enjoy talking.” He went to the door and led in a mild-looking man with round glasses. Peter stood politely to meet him. “Pete, this is Dr. Bruce Banner, one of the geniuses of the Gilded Age!”

Peter popped out a hand and began to chatter excitedly. “Dr. Banner! I know about you! Sir, can you explain to me what an ‘X-ray’ is? I’ve read x-rays could revolutionize medicine—”

Dr. Banner looked unsure, rocking heel to heel, but he shook Peter’s hand. “‘Could’ is a strong contingent. We still have much to study in regards to radiology and controlling energy.” 

He sat on one of the sofas and began to describe x-rays and their applications with Peter. Tony wandered around the room, picking up random things and fiddling with them, as he usually did, interjecting now and then. Peter was entranced and asked many questions, though he was disappointed when Dr. Banner said that there were probably few uses for x-rays in ceramics, at least artistically.

Dr. Banner answered all of Peter’s questions then he paused and stared at him. “I have to say, when Tony told me he had been discussing chemistry on a creative level, with a  _ kid _ , I assumed he meant a student at the university. But,” he smiled for the first time and said, “now I’m a little concerned that he might have kidnapped you…”

“Well, he  _ is _ holding me here tonight at my protest.” Peter grinned sardonically at Tony.

“Don’t tell him that!” Tony huffed. Then, he looked at Bruce’s disconcerted face. “This little idiot was planning to traipse, unprotected, into the New York tundra at 9 o’clock at night!”

Pepper returned some time after, wearing a flower crown. She carried another with her and placed it on Peter’s head. He laughed. “We’re starting up the dancing again,” she said. “I’d like to steal my husband away, if you don’t mind.”

To even his amazement, Peter stood and said, “If it’s alright, I would like to join you.”

Tony clapped his hands and said, “Well, let’s go dancing! Coming, Brucie?”

Dr. Banner began to rock on his heels and hunch his shoulders again. He’d born himself with much more certainty when talking about his science. “Speaking of transferring energy and struggling to control chaos…” He said, shaking his head. However, he followed them from the room.

  
  
  


At the close of the night, Peter felt a hand brush through his hair. His eyes remained sealed in sleep, but he knew it wasn’t part of the looming dreamscape. The soft place where he was nestled was not a dream. The hot cocoa Ms. Friday had brought him when they retired to the drawing room again was not a dream. The dancing before that— the laughing at stories with Tony, hearing Pepper read passages from her favorite books, watching the comedic mimes perform, playing parlor games— had not been a dream. 

Yet, all these thoughts swam through him ethereally as he lost consciousness. He knew the hand that carded his hair must have been Tony’s. Or Pepper’s, maybe— or maybe they each had smoothed his hair, at different times, and he was remembering it as one. Either way was good, he decided, everything was just  _ good _ .

  
  
  


The house was finally quiet at half past eleven. The guests who were staying at the mansion had mostly retired to their rooms. The others had left in their carriages. The fire crackled lowly as Tony entered the drawing room the last time for the night. Pepper stood by the window; she turned and laid a finger over her lips.

Tony saw Peter slumped over on a sofa, a woven throw blanket over him. Pepper whispered, “I knew he’d fall right to sleep if we left him alone for a while.” Tony nodded. He passed his hand fondly over Peter’s head. “We should try to get him to his bed soon. Before he’s any harder to move.”

Tony walked to her and planted a kiss on her cheek, then her lips. “You’d make a great mother, Pep.” He said and she gave a warm look.

“I was just thinking that about you,” she said. “When did you become so tender?”

“We should try this.” Tony said. “ _ Officially _ , I mean.”

Pepper sighed. “Tony, we’ve talked about this. I don’t want to shop for and purchase a child.”

“I don’t think those are the common terms.” Tony said deflectively. Then, more softly: “You act like we couldn’t make a child happy here…”

“We could. How could I possibly take one, though -- or even six or seven -- and leave the other hundreds?” 

“ _ Six _ or  _ seven _ ?” Tony attempted, jokingly.

Pepper smiled painfully. She inclined her head and captured his gaze. “Who are we to choose which children get a real place in the world while the others ride trains out to God knows where? Or go to the factories? Or become nursery maids when they’re still children themselves?” Tony was silent. “I’d rather make the homes where they live closer to loving homes, and reform the law to protect them better, than to use a child to play pretend.”

Tony put his arms around her waist. “It wouldn’t be pretend.” He said and she knew that she’d genuinely hurt him. He swayed them back and forth, resting his head against her neck. Eventually, he said. “Okay.”

Pepper placed a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry. I want that with you. I truly do! But, I can’t.”

They held each other a little longer. Then, Tony called for Happy to come and help get Peter to bed. Tony shook Peter’s shoulder a little, encouraging Peter to stand and slip his arms around Tony’s neck. They walked together, with Happy helping at Peter’s side, to the guest room that had been prepared. Pepper watched from the doorway, holding a hand over her collar. Tears fell, but she left them obscured in the dark. To play pretend with a child was unfair, she thought, but there was nothing pretend about anything they felt or did for that child holding onto to Tony in the unlit hall.


	6. The Only Prayer We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is sweetly humbled by the generosity he receives from Tony and Pepper. He felt like a dear friend. His own transgression at the workshop begins to weigh on him as he leaves Stark Manor.
> 
> "What if May discovered that he’d broken his apprenticeship contract? What if Tony and Pepper found out that, after all the incredible gifts they had given him in generosity, what he gave them, or had planned to, had been through deceit? Or even greed? Greed. Ownership."
> 
> Peter is anxious to make it right but the price to atone is heavy.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: sexual harassment of a minor, racial slurs (more abundant in this chapter)

May Parker loved to tell a particular story about five-year-old Peter, burrowing in a plump mound of blankets and on the verge of sleep. The blankets belonged to a couple of families May washed for and they were dry and ready to fold. May couldn’t blame Peter for climbing through them. After all, May had piled them on his bed; there was little room to put the laundry in their apartment.

As May folded, Peter sighed contentedly and reached up for her. “I’m a pumpkin patch,” he said. “Here’s a pumpkin for you!”

May took the imaginary pumpkin from his chubby hands (the only place he retained a little fat; he was such a skinny child. Even his cheeks and chin were slender.) “How nice!” Then, she patted his chest. “You’re always giving gifts. Such a sweet boy!”

Peter woke a little more. He propped himself on his elbows. “I want to give you a birthday present.”

“Well, there is still a while until then.” May said with a humming laugh.

“Aunt May! What do you want for your birthday? I’ll get it for you.”

She chuckled. “Just a kiss on the cheek from you,  _ bambino _ .”

May told this story to everyone, to illustrate any point about Peter’s personality— his creativity, his tenderness, his optimism. Sometimes she just sat and lived it over in her imagination. She told the story to Pepper once, six months after she had been hired by the Starks as a seamstress for Pepper.

She was pinning French lace in tiers across the skirt of a tea dress and Pepper stood gracefully still, allowing her to work without anxiety. Pepper talked to her about Peter, about whether she was able to see him often, and if Mr. Jameson was meeting his requirements of the apprenticeship contract.

Peter had been the lynchpin of their relationship. May obeyed the established distance between “types” of people. Crossing boundaries was something she’d done enough in her life, she said. Pepper, to her credit, never forced friendship. She understood the consequences of both fear and fearlessness.

Eventually, May had become comfortable around Pepper— at least comfortable enough to tell stories of their life. It had been difficult at first, though, and without their adoration of Peter as a bridge, May and Pepper may not have come to care for each other like they did. In fact, Pepper was the only one to ever hear the second part of the story...

Peter’s eyes softened as he gazed up at May. He said, “My papa used to say that.”

May smiled sadly. “I know,  _ motek _ .” She folded the next blanket. “Your kisses are precious and everyone wants them for a present!”

He began to quiet down again, sunken under the pile of laundry. “And my mama said that, too.”

“Does it make you happy or sad to remember?”

Peter was silent, only looking at her, chest heaving. The blinking of his eyes became slower and slower. He mumbled, his nose quavering, “Happy.” But, May saw that he was shedding giant tears. They slid down the curve of his face and disappeared directly into his ears.

“If it makes you happy, I’ll keep saying it.”

Peter woke in the guest room of the Stark mansion from a dull aching in both ears. As he rubbed his cheek across the cool satin case of his pillow, he didn’t think much of the ache since it was not very painful. The sheets and the cotton nightgown he only half-remembered dressing in last night billowed around his shoulders. For all his life, he couldn’t think of a reason to leave the bed.

Yet, he did, and as soon as his feet hit the floor, he wanted to find Tony and Pepper. “Some shun sunshine,” he said, not realizing he was speaking as he walked to draw the curtains. “Do you shun shun-sign?” That awoke his mind and he laughed at himself and tried the tongue twister again. 

He saw the flower crown he wore last night, when he bowed to Pepper and she danced with him, and he wanted to wear it again. Even Tony had donned one; then, forced one onto Dr. Banner and Col. Rhodes’s heads, too. Peter remembered the way Tony commanded the entire room. He was different from the quiet, obsessive man that sat long hours with him while he worked. Though, maybe not much different. Peter had just not had the opportunity to see his charisma amplified to accommodate so many people, he decided. Never seen him willing to  _ perform _ socially.

The curtains over the tall windows were thick and he threw them open and stood in the sunlight. Then, alone in the sun, he twirled and leaped, the New York Symphony strings ensemble performing in his head. Soon he felt too foolish, however, and he stopped, laughing to himself. He just didn’t want the night to end; but, it had.

The flower crown was removed and he combed his fingers through his curly hair. He washed his face, neck and ears in the basin lying on the room’s washstand. He smiled, thinking about how he didn’t need to pump the musty water of the workshop to wash this morning. The water smelled like roses and gardenias. It was still warm; Happy or one of the maids must have come not long ago, while he was still sleeping. Peter blushed at the thought. It reminded him of being waited on by Ms. Friday at dinner.

His clothes were laid out; they’d been washed, dried, ironed, and patched or mended where needed. There was also a cap placed on the jacket hanger, evidently meant for him to have. Peter burned with embarrassment when he noticed these gestures. He felt very much like a helpless child who had wandered into a missions or soup kitchen.

On a table by the door was a small, trimmed string-of-pearls in an ornate planter that resembled a pearl itself. The body was white and round and the ceramicist had used an opalescent glaze, much like he’d used on the Sevres-inspired vase… The Sevres-inspired vase he had held back from his master, hidden in his linen basket. 

The one he stole.

Peter no longer felt merely conspicuous; he felt  _ unworthy _ . It was mortifying. The entire night before he’d been called a friend, had blessings poured out on him, and been praised as gifted and kind by Tony and Pepper in front of all their fine friends. But, Mr. Jameson was right; he was a sneak. And he was untrustworthy. He didn’t want to find Tony or Pepper anymore.

What if May discovered that he’d broken his apprenticeship contract? What if Tony and Pepper found out that, after all the incredible gifts they had given him in generosity, what he gave them, or had planned to, had been through deceit? Or even greed? Greed.  _ Ownership _ . 

Peter’s throat closed. He had to get back to the shop and replace the vase. Perhaps if he did, no one would know, and he could pretend he deserved for them to be proud of him.

  
  
  


It was easier to leave when Jarvis told him that Pepper had business and was gone for the moment and Tony was still asleep. (Apparently he had not retired until very late last night.) “Mrs. Stark was sorry to leave without saying farewell, but wished you to know that she would return around noon, if you are able and inclined to wait for her. She also instructed me to feed you breakfast at, I assume,  _ all costs _ .”

Peter politely refused breakfast. He had to hurry before Mr. Jameson moved the finished pieces into the shop to sell Monday. Honestly, Peter was a little afraid, though, that Jarvis might try to tie him up at the table.  _ At all costs _ . “I must be on my way, I’m afraid.”

“I anticipated such,” Jarvis said. Peter wondered if he was being rude to leave the Stark mansion this way; however, Jarvis didn’t seem to pass judgement on him. “So, I took the liberty of making it portable for you.” He retrieved a small basket and handed it to Peter.

Peter could smell the aroma of good food. The embroidered handkerchief covering the fare was puffed up and warm from the meal. He thought of the enormous dinner he’d eaten the night before. He began to tremble with the memory. “Thank you, Mr. Jarvis.”

Jarvis smiled at his genuineness, a rare sight, and replied: “I will relay that to Mrs. Stark.”

“Oh! That’s reminded me.” Peter said and reached into the satchel around his shoulders with the hand that didn’t cradle the potted string-of-pearls. “Mr. Jarvis, could you please give this to Mrs. Stark?” He handed over Pepper’s bird encyclopedia along with a note tucked in the front cover that thanked her and Tony for allowing him to be with them at their Christmas Party, for all their extraordinary generosity. A letter to say how special it all had been.

“I will see to it, Mr. Parker,” Jarvis said.

Peter confirmed with Jarvis that the order of tiles he’d delivered last evening was safely stored. Then, said goodbye and went to the stable to fetch the rickshaw. The weather was not as miserable in the daylight. Peter jogged across the drive. Happy was waiting for him by the stable door.

“Good morning, Mr. Hogan.” He said. “Were you the one who. patched my clothes, sir? I’m very much obliged!”

Mr. Hogan nodded, a little staunchly, which was his way. “I hope you’re not planning to cause trouble for me this morning, kid. Mr. and Mrs. Stark both, on separate occasions, made it clear that you are not to walk if you leave.”

Peter sighed, though he wasn’t surprised. “But, I must return with my master’s rickshaw. If I don’t, its value and necessity to him will certainly double…”

Mr. Hogan turned and lumbered inside. “I can hook it behind. Harley! Help me hitch up the carriage.”

Peter relented, thinking that the carriage would be faster, after all. He paused to glance back at the mansion and felt a pang of regret that he did not say goodbye to Tony properly and that the night he’d spent at the Stark mansion had ended. Then, he rushed into the stable. “I can help as well!”

  
  
  


Riding in the carriage was much preferable to driving a cart or, especially, pushing the rickshaw from Manhattan to the shop in Brooklyn. He ate the meal Jarvis had packed for him: a savory crepe with spinach and ricotta cheese, toast with butter, an orange, and a jar of cold milk. It was lonely, though, riding alone; so, Peter leaned his head from the window and called out to Happy a few times during the trip. Of course, Happy did not approve of this at all.

“Have you ever been to the castles of Germany, Mr. Hogan?” He spoke into the wind. “My uncle used to talk to me about Germany. I had forgotten much until Mrs. Stark was speaking of it last night.” He took a big breath of freezing air. Happy didn’t reply, so he continued. “My parents lived in Vaduz in the Austro-Hungarian Empire for many years and visited Germany often. My uncle moved from there and lived in Sicily when he was a young man. That’s where he met my aunt—”

Finally, Happy lost patience and told him to return his head into the carriage “before it’s swept off by a messenger bicycle.”

Happy let Peter off at the alley entrance by the shop. The street was almost deserted; many of its families were attending church. Peter unhitched the rickshaw from the back. “I will leave the basket from my breakfast in the carriage,” he said. Then, he retrieved his string-of-pearls. Happy asked if Peter was able to enter the shop; it appeared to be locked up securely. 

Peter said, “The Jamesons will have gone to Sunday mass, but I have a key to the back.” 

Happy nodded and urged the horses to start the journey home. Peter didn’t wait; he sprinted down the alley to the workshop door. As he fumbled through his satchel for his key, he spoke encouraging words to himself.

_ Mr. Jameson surely hasn’t priced the new pieces yet. He doesn’t do that until after Sunday supper. And, he hasn’t seen the Sevres-esque vase yet, so he can’t assume anything is missing _ .

The bolt scraped through the lock; he heard it. But, the door didn’t budge. Peter rattled the handle, making sure the latch was moving, then he pushed with his shoulder. His heart began to race. The bar on the other side was drawn across the door. It never was.

Peter stepped away and looked at the windows. Of course, they were unlit. Everyone was gone to church. The wind blew through the alley and Peter huddled back into the doorway. He drew his coat around the little plant in his arms, hoping it would not be hurt by the cold. He told himself that Mr. Jameson might have been paranoid about intruders, seeing that Peter wasn’t there last night.

When the wind found him in the doorway, Peter was grateful for the cap that Tony and Pepper had given him. He pulled it down over his ear tips. After a while, he inspected the windows, but they were securely locked as well. Then, he peered inside.

The fire was not lit, of course, and the glass was horribly scratched and dirty. However, he could discern that something was wrong. Items in his corner sleeping area were on the floor. His chest, where he kept his belongings neatly, was open. The sheets and blankets from his bed were sprawled on the floor and his mattress looked like it had been overturned and let drop. Peter finally gulped down a breath.

He saw the linen basket, its wicker lid snug. It appeared undisturbed. He went around to the shop front and tried the handle, foolishly. He hurried to the back alley again before anyone could suspect he was trying to force entry.

The Jamesons could be heard approaching down the street a little over an hour later. Peter stood from the back step where he sat with his hands stuffed into his sleeves. He walked around to the front and saw Mr. Jameson unlock the shop door and usher his squabbling family inside. Peter approached the unlocked door and Mr. Jameson saw him.

“What are doing?” He asked sharply. Peter froze at the aghast look on his master’s face. Mr. Jameson jerked his head in the direction of the back. Then he entered the windless warmth of the shop.

Peter went to the backdoor and waited. His pounding heart kept time for him: one thousand beats. Finally, he heard the bar removed. Mr. Jameson opened the door and stared at him for a moment then he moved to let Peter inside. Not knowing if he should speak, Peter didn’t.

He picked up the string-of-pearls and stepped into the workshop carefully. Mr. Jameson remained by the door. Peter held his elbows very closely to his sides. He couldn’t stop quaking. 

The area of the workshop where the ceramics materials and tools were was untouched. Only his living area was ransacked. He stayed away from it, feeling the need to avoid the violation like it was a new wound. He set the plant on his table where Mr. Jameson had thrown off his coat. Turning, Peter faced his master with uncertainty, standing amidst the items littering the floor.

“What’s that?”

Peter swallowed. “A gift.”

Mr. Jameson was quiet. He appeared to be sucking on his tongue, his jaw jutting forward. After a few breaths, he nodded at Peter. “Anything you have to say?” 

Peter’s breath circled the back of his throat. He did, he was sure, but he couldn’t decide what. Jameson didn’t wait for him to decide.

“Did you write down inventory before taking off yesterday?” He prodded. “Is everything” — he shrugged in passive aggressive nonchalance— “ _ accounted _ for?”

Peter took off his cap. He tried to rebalance himself. Then Jameson caught his eye and drew his gaze slowly to the linen basket. Peter’s breath caught then he licked his lips and looked at Jameson again.

His master stood leaning against the wall, waiting. Peter began to move; he had been waiting too, but now it was obvious that Mr. Jameson had a drama designed in his head and here was Peter’s cue to play his role.

He leaned over the linen basket and removed the lid. The contents had been shifted, he noticed. His hands found the form of the vase and he uncovered it. The marbled-orb weaver confronted him and the midland hawthorn and the gilded handles. He had been so proud of his work.

Peter carried the vase to Mr. Jameson and offered it to him. But, his master didn’t take it. Wrong action. “Put it back where it goes, Parker.” Mr. Jameson clipped.

Peter obeyed. He placed the vase on the shelf beside the Jack-in-the-Pulpit where it had been. Suddenly, Mr. Jameson was standing close behind him. “There. That looks right.” He said. Peter turned to him. “Now, mind telling me how it got misplaced in your linens, boy?”

“I,” Peter said in a whisper, his foot beginning to tap, “I kept it back, sir.”

“You kept it back?” Jameson repeated as though these were foreign words.

Peter rasped. “I, uh, I, I stole it.” He felt a tremor pass through his face. “Sir.”

“You betrayed my trust?” Mr Jameson asked rhetorically. “Took advantage of my hospitality… And you admit it.  _ Boldfacedly! _ ” — his volume began to ramp — “You know, everyone told me it was unwise to take a sneaky little Ike on as apprentice. Watch your valuables, keep your eye on the little sheeny, they warned me.” He laughed mirthlessly. “What would your aunt have to say about this?”

Eyes round, Peter looked up at him. “Please, sir,  _ please _ . I’m sorry!”

“Or was she the one that taught you to sneak?”

Horrified, Peter cried: “No!” He stepped forward, pleading. “Sir, I regret my actions and fully intended to return what I took the moment I came back to the shop.”

“Is that supposed to ease my conscience?” Jameson roared. “Huh, boy? Am I supposed to sleep peacefully at night knowing there’s a thief under my roof just because you’re self-proclaimed?” Mr. Jameson was inflamed in red now. Peter cowered, broken under the weight of his tone. “How many years—? What else, huh? Have you carried off anything else?”

“You  _ know _ I haven’t!” Peter insisted.

“I don’t know anything!” Mr. Jameson’s face turned from red to purple, resembling Peter’s lip that first morning after it was split.

"You would have noticed it missing!"

Peter flinched when Mr. Jameson's fist rose threateningly; but, his master didn't hit him. Jameson said, “I knew I couldn’t put anything past you.”  Then Peter understood. Jameson didn’t believe that he had turned over all the money Tony had given him for his delivery, so he looked through Peter’s things. He didn’t find money, but, he found the vase. More humiliating than his transgression now was his stupidity. Peter gritted his teeth.

“Mr. Jameson, I just wanted—”

“Spare me your excuses!” Jameson snapped. “You’re a menace, Parker! Fool-headed, stubborn, disrespectful— now untrustworthy to top it off.” When his master stopped screaming but drew three hitched breaths, Peter glanced up. 

“But you—” Jameson drawled. “You will learn a thing or two. Come with me, Parker!”

Peter watched Jameson whirl and march to the door. His guts were hot with fear. Jameson stopped and grabbed his coat from the table where it was thrown. His actions were so brusque his coat knocked against the string-of-pearls, upsetting its planter. It wobbled but righted. 

Peter asked tremulously, “Where?”

Jameson turned to him and donned his hat. “You confessed to breaking the law, didn’t you? We’re going to have a talk with the judge. See if he can teach you something I can’t.”

There were many others in the cell with him. The ill-lit space masked their features, but he could perceive some of the men— like the portly man with the ashen hair who was leering at his small frame and scrawny legs. Peter could only guess there were about fifteen others crowded between the bars and the stone wall. The guard had tossed him in here with these men, all of them older than Peter, larger, stronger, and not at all afraid of being where they were.

“Tell him what you did.” Mr. Jameson had said when he shoved Peter into the police station.

“I st-stole fr—m—“ But, he couldn’t finish. He choked on humiliation, dread, and anger at himself.

The sergeant took his name and age. He ignored Peter when he asked if he could send word to his aunt. “He’ll need to talk to the Children’s Court judge.” The sergeant said then regarded Peter with a slight sneer as though deeply inconvenienced. “Won’t be til after the holiday. But he can stay with my boys til then, by God, if he has the hair to steal in the very house he’s living.”

Mr. Jameson asked to speak with the sergeant privately and a guard took Peter by the upper arm. He must have expected a fight because his grip bore down hard on Peter’s thin arm. Peter thought the guard had him by the very bone. 

In the cell, Peter remained by the door, as far from the prisoners as he could stand. His shoes squelched on the damp floor as he shifted. He felt a body loom next to him and he flinched and slipped. His palms struck the floor but they skidded and he hit his chin. Light exploded behind his closed eyes. He shuddered, feeling grime smear onto him. There were some scoffs and slurs as he groaned and righted his legs under him.

“Lookee here,” the portly man said, standing over him. He took Peter’s chin between his thumb and forefinger knuckle. Even if he hadn’t been petrified, Peter may not have been able to wrest away from the grasp. “This one’s still smooth as a baby.” He pulled his face close until Peter could see his ash blond stubble in the low light. “I know a thing or two that will put some hair on your chin. Or under it, at least.”

“Lay off, Westcott.” The guard called, but didn’t move to intervene, to Peter’s abject horror.

The large man — Westcott, the officer said — traced his nose through the air along Peter’s jaw. A few times it grazed his cheek or ear. Puffs from Westcott’s nose settled on his hair. “Ol’ Saint Nick sent something early this year.” 

Peter lost any sense of direction, trying to get away but forgetting how to move.

“Knock it off, will you? He’s just a kid.” The call came from the next holding cell. A very short man with two black eyes stood pressed against the bars. He pounded them once to get Westcott’s attention. There was little else he could do though.

Westcott straighten, sneered at the man, and said, “What? You don’t like your meat tender or your fruit hard?”

The short man snarled rabidly. “Shut your bone box!”

Peter gulped down breath while the criminals argued. He sought the guard and found him at the desk, still, reading the paper. Peter’s insides were beginning to churn. He stretched out his hands to crawl away but his fingers unwittingly snatched the tail of some creature. He recoiled with a cry of disgust and caught Westcott’s attention again.

The man swooped down and attempted to raise Peter from the floor, hands under his arms. “Now, now, bubchen. Be a good boy.”

Peter’s mind was screaming but he couldn’t hear. He went slack, weighing himself down as best he could.  _ Help. Help, please! _

Then, Westcott was knocked away from him. Peter looked up and saw a tall man with heavy-lidded eyes. But the man wasn’t looking at him. He was staring down at Westcott.

“What—” Westcott started.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll stand up and walk to the back of the cell and stay put until this whelp is gone.” The man said. “You step toward him and I floor you again.”

Peter couldn’t catch his breath as Westcott stood. The man seemed a behemoth, but he was oddly subdued by the tall man’s declaration. Peter scrambled to his feet, too, not wanting to be at a physical disadvantage any longer. 

Westcott abided by the threat; he stood where he was and seemed to plead with the tall man. “Whoa, Davis. Everything’s jake. He wasn’t fighting it.” Westcott turned to him. 

Davis was unmoved. “I don’t want that funny stuff in my cell, especially not with a kid.”

“I think he  _ wants _ a little attention.”

Peter’s leg shot out and kicked Westcott in the abdomen. Westcott buckled, knees hitting the floor. The short man with two black eyes laughed until he was hoarse. “Meat tender enough for you, Skippy?”

Peter panted. He retreated out of reach, back digging painfully into the iron bars behind him. Westcott said nothing but crawled from Peter and sat on the back wall of the cell. Nausea brewed in Peter’s stomach. But, before the bile could well up, there was a rap of the guard’s billy stick against the bars on Peter’s back. 

He fell away from them, tears in his eyes from fright. “Pipe down! All of you!” The guard railed. He shook a finger at Peter. “And you, Ikeymo, know that I won’t abide a troublemaker in this jailhouse. You’re no more innocent because you’re puny.”

“You’re a real bully trap, kid.” The short man said when the guard had slumped back to his desk. “Aren’t you? Come over here.  _ Come on _ , I won’t bite you.”

Reluctantly, Peter walked to cell wall they shared. Drawn up as closely as he could be into himself, he pursed his lips, eyes never leaving Westcott’s huddled form. He waited for the black-eyed man to say what he wanted.

“A bully trap alright.” The man finally repeated. “So am I, huh? It’s why I’m in full mourning.” He indicated the two black rings on his eyes. “But I can give them something to think about.”

Peter didn’t speak. So, the man continued. “That prowler that saved your bacon is Aaron Davis, by the way. And I’m Rocky.” A fight broke out between two of the criminals in Peter’s cell. Bodies crashed around him and Peter tucked his head into his shoulders. “Eeh boy.” Rocky groaned. “Ratty place to be the day before Christmas Eve.”

Peter scowled a little. His foot was tapping, though, he didn’t realize. His fingernails picked at the thin fabric of his sleeves. They had not allowed him to keep his coat or cap and drafts of needling cold filled the jailhouse.

“You can cry.” He heard Rocky say. “You’re a goddamn  _ kid _ . You’re allowed to cry.” 

With that, Peter felt an enormous pain on both sides of his jaw. It shot up his nerves into his ears. He heard blood rushing there and he fought to control the muscles in his face. It wasn’t safe to cry.

He thought about being home. May singing with him as they ended the night in their little apartment. He heard the music of the pottery wheel. The light in the windows. The smell of the kiln. But, he didn’t feel safe there anymore. Again he imagined May, dancing in the kitchen, the phonograph that was her prized possession, the reams of French lace, the bolts of fabric his uncle had woven, the drawings of his parents… but, no, he didn’t feel safe there either; the sickness began to color his thoughts of home.

“I know you’re thinking that if you do, they’ll think they can hurt ya, but,” Rocky said with an almost flippant drone, “I mean, they already tried when you weren’t crying, so why hold back, you know?”

Peter’s bottom lip curled involuntarily and the tender skin resplit.

“There you go. See? Don’t worry, boyo. Ya won’t be here long. Just think about something good. Take your mind off it.”

Peter didn’t make a sound over the din of the other prisoners. He thought of clay and the soft grays and whites of kaolin and the way he could shape it with all the passion he couldn't show anywhere else. He thought about his hummingbird feeder, hanging on the fragrant olive tree. He thought about Swiss chocolates and satin pillowcases and cellos and goose flambé and string-of-pearls and x-rays and Pepper’s giggles and Tony’s voice reading to him. He wanted them. He wanted May and Pepper. He wanted Tony. He wanted Tony.


	7. Some Shun the Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. Jameson was given his chance to meet Mrs. Virginia Stark on the Sunday evening before Christmas, after he had returned from taking Peter to the jailhouse."
> 
> Pepper and Tony learn that Peter has been detained at the jailhouse, convicted by Jameson of theft. In the jail, Peter is defenseless, and must draw on his own inner strength to protect himself.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: sexual harassment of a minor, racism and racial slurs, mild violence and mention of blood

Mr. Jameson was given his chance to meet Mrs. Virginia Stark on the Sunday evening before Christmas, after he had returned from taking Peter to the jailhouse.

He was placing the newly priced, finished ceramics on tall display stands when he heard a light but purposeful knock on the shop door. Annoyed, he tried to gesture that the shop was closed. However, the figure tapped again and he saw that it was a lady, though she was as tall as he, and very well-dressed, so he hurried over. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but my humble shop is closed on the Lord’s day.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to interrupt your day off, Mr. Jameson, but I would not be able to discuss business with you tomorrow.” Pepper said, stepping into the doorway, forcing Mr. Jameson to make room for her to enter. “You see, we have rather momentous plans for tomorrow. I hope this will not be an awful inconvenience.”

Mr. Jameson stared at the woman, taken completely off his guard. He stammered as he tried to think of what to say. “No inconvenience,” he finally muttered.

“Good.” Pepper said, fully directing the conversation. She held a leather portfolio in the crook of her arm. Her manner was one of professional flair. Jameson was visibly intimidated by her presence and sudden proclamation. “I am Virginia Stark. I’ve come to discuss Peter Parker’s apprenticeship with you.”

  
  
  


Peter was in a time-deprived state of shock. He knew he’d been locked up with the other pre-trial criminals around three o’clock that afternoon; but, no distinction could be made between day and night. The basement jail had no access to natural light and the guards didn’t comment on the hour. Added to this was a persistent haze; he felt suspended somehow as though he might fall into an enchanted sleep. Peter was completely disoriented by the time a guard brought a loaf of bread that resembled fruitcake, dense and apparently choked full of ingredients.

The men crowded the bars and took a slice of it for supper— all except Peter, who couldn’t feel his hunger, buried as it was under his distress, and Westcott, who stood when the guard brought the tray to the bars, but stayed where he was. Davis had given him a very pointed look when he moved away from the back wall to get his own slice.

“Aren’t ya gonna eat?” Rocky prodded Peter through the bars. He warned: “You’re not dead yet, boyo. Ya need food.”

Peter complied blearily; he was the last besides Westcott to walk over. The slice of loaf was dry and Peter saw the starchy strings of former vegetables in it. It smelled like beef pot roast, but there was a sickenly sweet aroma of some sort of fruit to it as well. It seemed that an entire meal had been ground up and baked into a brick.

Nevertheless, he politely said to the guard, “Thank you, sir,” and the guard stared at him before sneering. “Don’t be a wisenheimer, kid.” He moved on to Rocky’s cell with the tray. Peter put the piece of loaf in his pocket without another coherent thought. His ears were aching again.

  
  


Tony strode through the alley to the workshop door as gaily as he would during the daytime. He went to turn the knob but it did not give. “Hmm.” He clucked. After all, it was nighttime, and the kid probably had settled in for the evening. There was the glow of a light somewhere within, so Tony rapped on the door. Admittedly, he was disappointed he couldn’t burst in, lackadaisical as usual, but so it goes.

Peter didn’t answer, however. Tony bobbed up and down on his heels then knocked again. But, no one answered. No throwing open of the door, no excited greeting of “Mr. Stark!”, no rambling apology while the door was unbarred and unlocked. Slightly peeved and a little concerned, Tony headed for the shop entrance. Change of plans.

  
  


An hour after the “nutraloaf” was served, Peter heard the tumblers of the cell door’s lock. “Davis!” The guard called. “Come on, then!”

No change passed over Aaron Davis’s face as he walked, slightly swaying, from the back cell wall. He did pause, however, as he passed Peter and gazed at him for a moment. Peter might have interpreted a look of apology. 

Westcott watched him go with great interest. Peter saw him look at the other criminals in the cell as if measuring something in them. But, he stayed where Davis had put him.

The guard commented to Davis as he escorted him up the stairs. “You must have friends in high places.” Then they were both gone and door to the basement jail closed.

  
  
  


“Regrettably, the boy’s not here tonight.” Mr. Jameson said. He removed a partially smoked cigar from his vest pocket and bit it. Seeing her nose curl, he decided against lighting it.

“Where is Peter?” Pepper asked, voice tight.

“Well, ma’am,” Jameson said gruffly. “I was actually on my way to fetch him… in the morning, that is.”

“From where?” Pepper asked with more emphasis.

Jameson chewed on his cigar, using it as a tool to ground himself. “Well, I’m pained to be the one to have to tell you this, but, you see, the boy, uh, Peter,  _ stole _ an item from the shop yesterday.”

Pepper straightened. “ _ Where _ is Peter, Mr. Jameson. This is the third time I am asking you.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that he confessed to the crime and I had to arrange for him to spend the night in the precinct jailhouse— to deter, eh, further, you know,  _ transgressions _ .” Mr. Jameson crossed his arms firmly.

Pepper’s eyebrows bounced though her face remained resolutely drawn.

“So,” he continued, invoking his sense of self-righteousness, the base stone of his confidence, “you understand that as the boy’s master and the injured party, I had to address the  _ situation _ .”

Inhaling through her nose, Pepper readjusted her shoulders. “Yes, I understand your position on things very well, Mr. Jameson.”

Tony entered the shop door then and crossed behind Pepper to the little hallway door. “Back door was locked,” he explained offhandedly. Pepper remained still and hardly took notice.

Jameson sputtered as Tony disappeared, “Now hold on—!”

Pepper interrupted. “Excuse my husband,” she said with no trace of true apology. “You said you arranged that he stay the night. Has he spoken to a judge?”

“Not as of yet, ma’am. The holiday—”

“What did he confess to take?”

“Well, his contract clearly outlines—”

“I’m familiar with his contract,” Pepper said. Jameson gaped, wondering where she could have obtained a copy. He eyed the portfolio in her arms, having more of an idea of its contents. “I’ve read it thoroughly. So it was an item meant to be sold? How did you discover it was not in its right place?” 

Tony returned from the hallway door and stormed toward Jameson. The latter actually took a step back at the sight of the charge. Tony was ready to boom out a question, but Pepper intercepted him with an answer. “He’s not here, Tony. Mr. Jameson was just offering his explanation as to why.”

“Love to hear it.” Tony seethed.

  
  
  


Westcott began moving around the cell. One moment he was standing next to a group of men on the opposite wall. The next he was in the center of the cell, only his ashen shock of hair visible in a different huddle of criminals. Every time he moved, Peter’s breath trembled in his rib cage.

“I see you, vermin.” Rocky snarled at him. Peter wished that Rocky was in the cell with him or that they were both in a separate cell from Westcott. The guard had returned, but he had already shown that he would not prevent whatever assault Westcott had in mind. 

Peter kept a vigil on the man. His best hope was to be strategic about their distance and to put as many obstacles between them as possible. He felt just like a feeder cricket in a lizard’s tank. 

Another man from Rocky’s cell had joined them at the wall. He was laidback and maybe also hungover. He murmured close to Peter’s ear. “Looks like you might need a magic trick.”

Peter dared to take his eyes off Westcott and looked questioningly at the man. Then he noticed the laidback man had removed a deck of cards from his pocket. “Alakazam,” he whispered and slid off the top quarter of loose playing cards to reveal that the bottom three quarters had been glued together. Not only that, but the center of the cards had been cut out of the bottom three quarters and the entire deck converted into a makeshift box. Inside was a short sodbuster knife.

  
  
  


“ _Where_ _is_ the kid?” Tony pressed.

“Somewhere I don’t believe he wants you to see him.” Pepper said and her brow gave a compassionate lift.

“What did you do to him?” Tony demanded, eyes trained on Jameson dangerously. He appeared fully in the grip of anxious rage now. “His things are all thrown across the floor. If you hurt him, I--”

“Save yourself the embarrassment, Stark,” Jameson retorted. “The little sheeny stole from  _ me _ !”

Pepper glared at him. “That answers how you discovered the missing item then?”

Jameson bristled. “He  _ confessed!  _ Do I have to spell it out for you? He confessed— and  _ only _ after company property was discovered in his possession. I had a right to search, by the way, in my own home. If I didn’t, who knows how many belongings of mine he could be hiding?”

“It never left the property, then?” Pepper asked. Her poise was nearly poetically in conjunction with Jameson’s raving. “I’m very unclear, Mr. Jameson, why you felt the need to take a _child_ to _jail_ over such a petty offense as 'intent to steal.'”

Tony fumed. The constricting of his chest caused him to go a little weak. “I’m going to get him.” He declared as he stalked toward the door.

Pepper called to him softly. “Wait, Tony. I believe Mr. Jameson still has a role to play in the matter. He brought the charges; but, he will go, now, to the courthouse to drop them.”

“Now wait just a minute.” Jameson demanded. “Parker is  _ my _ apprentice. He confessed to stealing and I am in my rights to discipline him for his actions.”

At this Tony whirled on him. He took two fistfuls of Jameson’s vest. “And would he feel the need if you treated him well?”

“I upheld my end; that ungrateful—!”

“It will be difficult to complete that sentence with a broken jaw!”

Pepper calmly walked to them and swept back her husband’s hands, saying, “I already need to speak to the police. It’ll go over better if I don't also need to defend  _ you _ .” Then, she went to the door and called, “Friday, I need you a moment.”

Tony’s respect for Pepper was the only buffer between him and Jameson. The men stared each other down, nostrils flared. Friday was standing with them in moment and Jameson started at her silent appearance. “What is this? Am I being overrun?” He shrieked.

Ignoring him, Pepper gave her instructions to Friday. “Try to find a messenger and send word to May Parker that Peter will be home  _ tonight _ instead of tomorrow as planned. If you can’t find one so late, we’ll just have to surprise her, I suppose. Also ask Harley to begin preparing Peter’s belongings to be moved.”

Friday left and Jameson complained loudly. “You barge in here, ready to make a villain of me, but what’s your game? You think I haven’t noticed Stark Industries buying up stocks of my own company? Now you steal my employee from under my nose?”

“You have a strange concept of ownership,” Tony said with derision. “Peter can’t be stolen. He’s not a pot. As for his employment,” Tony said and stretched, “well, it seems the little fool’s gotten himself out of that on his own. Am I understanding the terms of the contract correctly, my love?”

Pepper nodded, watching Jameson’s stricken face. “According to the contract, Peter did not follow the requirements of his apprenticeship and it is null and void.”

“So, he’s not your employee anymore.” Tony said. “It’s too bad that you’ve driven him away; he’s not likely to ever work for you again.”

“All the more a shame, I had a much more agreeable proposal prepared to discuss with you tonight, Mr. Jameson. But, considering these developments, I will have to rethink my offer.”

Tony turned up his chin with a humor that made Jameson’s stomach turn cold. “I don’t know, Pepper, my dear, I’m liking this angle of the deal better every minute.”

  
  
  


“Kid, don’t take that.” Rocky said with exasperation. Then he slapped the other prisoner’s arm. “Lang,  _ are you nuts _ ?”

The other man, Lang, shrugged innocently. “I’m trying to help.”

“Does the kid  _ look _ like he’s ever been in a knife fight?”

“How were  _ you _ going to protect him? Hope that ape comes within a foot of the bars so you can grab him with your tiny arms?”

“Ya want to repeat that?”

“I’m just saying, he’s going to have to protect himself and a knife never hurt…”

“You  _ idiot _ .”

Peter scanned the cell for Westcott. He hissed at the two men on the other side of the bars. They were becoming too loud. “Sirs…”

“If you don’t know how to use a knife, it only ends up being used on you.” Rocky spoke in an exaggerated, professorly tone. “Criminey.”

“I don’t want it,” Peter said. He glanced at them and back into the dim cell with its groups of milling prisoners. He’d lost track of his predator. “My uncle… I, I don’t want to… stab anybody.”

Then he glimpsed Westcott, nearer than ever since Davis left, but not advancing. 

Lang mumbled: “Has the moral high ground done you any favors recently, kid?”

Peter didn’t answer. He could see himself trembling and tried to quit. Westcott looked at him disdainfully, then, as if a shadow passed over him, the expression morphed and he seemed penitent. 

“Look here, bubchen,” he said, “I’ve always been ratty at making friends. Can’t we start over?”

“Don’t buy into that, kid.” Rocky muttered grimly.

Westcott persisted, advancing a step. “I’m so very sorry for upsetting you.”

Peter shuddered. He just wanted this to end. “I accept your apology; now, leave me alone and go back where you were.”

“You heard him, Skippy.” Rocky growled and reared up, but Westcott wasn’t deterred.

He cocked his head at Peter. “ You know, you weren’t very nice to me, either.” Another step. “Don’t you think you should offer to make it up to me?”

“Westcott.” The guard’s voice came threateningly. “Leave the Jewboy alone.” But then he added to Peter, locking an eye on him: “See what trouble you could have saved yourself,” he drawled, “if you had kept your dirty hands where they belonged?”

Westcott was almost close enough now for his large waist to bump against Peter. Peter felt suffocated. Rocky was snarling at Westcott, even batting his arms through the bars, but he couldn’t reach. Lang had gone to their cell entrance and was appealing to the guard.

A strike of fear finally woke Peter from the place in his mind where he’d been hiding. The place he’d gone to wait until it was over. He stuffed his hand into his pocket and crumbled the dry nutraloaf into a fine powder. Westcott leaned over him.

“I didn’t get any supper because of you—“

Peter sprung and rubbed the crumbs in Westcott’s eyes. When the large man doubled, he cracked the bridge of his nose one hard shot with his elbow. Westcott jolted away with a howl of pain. Peter heard the cell door rattling; deliriously, he thought it was Westcott’s nose, jangling on his face. 

A cold sweat broke over Peter. The guard was crying for everyone to get back, though the prisoners only crowded more crazily, pushing toward Westcott’s lumped form. The billy club banged on the door.

Peter reeled and fell against the iron bars. He heard Rocky and Lang talking behind him, but he couldn’t make sense of what they said. Finally the prisoners cleared and the guard entered. However, he didn’t approach Westcott but clamped a hand on Peter’s shoulder and pulled him out of the cell.

Before another word was spoken, the door at the top of the stairs opened. “I need Parker brought up.” A voice called down. “Someone’s come to collect him.” Peter heard the words through swimming ears. Faces began to appear in his mind as the guard huffed and hauled him up the stairs two steps at a time.

“Good riddance,” the guard grumbled.

  
  
  


The adrenaline hammering inside him died when Peter saw who was there to collect him. He didn’t understand until he saw Mr. Jameson standing in the foyer of the jailhouse that he’d been wishing Tony was there. There to take him home. Peter felt overwhelmed by sorrow; the sickness of fear returned.

Mr. Jameson sniffed almost grandly and proclaimed. “Well, Parker, I can see that the law has taught you your lesson and I doubt you’ll soon scorn my generosity again.” He took Peter’s shoulders and steered him from the foyer, calling thanks to the officers. As he left, Peter thought he could hear yelling somewhere behind them— it sounded like Pepper, but his head was too clouded and he scoffed at himself for such a wild hope.

Peter had no words for Mr. Jameson, who prattled in front of him, taking large strides in the snow. “Oh, Parker... I’m partly to blame for how things turned out,” he said. “I should have been stricter with you.” The snow crunched under his boots. “You’re a good boy at heart and I want to know that I forgive you.”  _ Crunch, crunch _ .

Peter’s breath raced. Was the adrenaline resurrecting or the sickness worsening? He heard a great crack of ice under toe— his brain shot the sensation of Westcott’s nose breaking against his elbow back into his arm. He fell, retching, to the ground.

“Good Lord, boy! Pull yourself together.” Jameson jerked away, repulsed.

“You…” He panted. He spit bile from his mouth and continued. “You only... came back for me because I’m _valuable_ to you.”

“What was that?” Jameson asked. He was stunned.

Peter turned up his face toward his master. “I work the kiln. I create the pieces that sell. I make you money." His nose prickled and he gathered a breath. "I’m sorry for what I did; but, I’m less sorry to you than I am to myself-- or my Aunt May-- or my good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Stark-- for not keeping true to my integrity.”

Jameson replied in a tight tone. “That so?”

Peter stood. “You say I scorned your generosity, but that’s not true. I betrayed your trust, I broke your rules, but you never gave me any generosity to scorn!” He was yelling now and could already feel the sucking, empty pain of sobs deep in his gut. “You haven’t been generous. You haven’t even been _fair!_ ”

For a split second he wondered why Jameson didn’t rebuke him or argue or even strike him. Then he felt a hand on lay comfortingly on his back. Instead of flinching at the sudden touch, Peter melted into it. He knew immediately who was there. Peace moved through his body like warm water into cold, and he heard, “Couldn’t have said it better, Pete. I’ll take it from here, J.J.”

Peter looked up at Tony.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony said softly, “I thought I might see you home, if that suits you.”

He let himself fall against Tony’s coat like a sigh and nodded. Peter didn’t remember Jameson anymore, almost as though he’d been dispelled by the relief that washed away any of his other cares. Tony walked him to the carriage.

“How are you doing, Hap?” Tony asked his valet as Peter climbed onto the running board.

“Cold, sir.” Happy grouched. “If you’re asking.”

“One more stop,” Tony said. “Then, all the hot butter rum you can drink. How’s that?”

Tony lifted himself into the carriage and sat securely next to Peter. The carriage pitched forward as Happy urged the horses to take them to May's little house in Queens, to Peter's home. Peter felt Tony’s weight against his side and he stifled a whimper. He felt the jolt as Tony chafed his hands together. The sensation of shaking didn’t cease after Tony lowered his hands and Peter realized it was himself who was quavering, but he couldn’t stop it.

Noticing Peter trembling, Tony put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him tenderly closer. Peter lost himself and cast across Tony’s chest, weeping suddenly and with unrestrained, ugly sobs. Tony drew him still more snugly and murmured, “I’m here. I’m here, Peter. I’m here.”

With enormous effort, Peter lobbed out fragments of words amid incoherent cries. Their meaning tripped on hiccups and even he couldn’t discern them. Even knowing Tony couldn’t understand them, Peter abandoned all control; he wanted so desperately to say  _ I was scared! I was so scared and there was a man who scared me and I can’t explain why and I feel so ruined and filthy and I had to fight him off on my own and he was so much larger than I and the guard said I  _ deserved _ it— he said it was my own fault and I still feel the slimy wetness of blood on my elbow and he kept saying he would hurt me and I wanted you so much— I wanted you to come and you’re here and I’m so happy but I can’t feel happy. I’m still so scared and it won’t go away. _

Tony listened and several times softly asked, “What was that, Pete? What did you say?”

But Peter could only cling to him, so broken and small, and weeping and coughing, but drawing comfort from Tony’s strong arms and the quiet timber of his voice, and finally, after a long, harrowing trial, feeling safe. Safe at last!

  
  
  


Tony’s embrace guarded Peter long after he’d quieted. Peter had fallen asleep against him in the carriage, completely collapsed physically and emotionally. Tony couldn’t imagine how exhausted he must be. Tony also had seen, dimly in the lamplight of the jailhouse, a nasty scrape on the bottom of Peter’s chin. The kid’s clothes were smeared with grime. His stomach rumbled in his sleep. Also, Tony couldn't be sure whether Peter had vomited outside the jailhouse from being sick or from the undeniable stress he must feel. “This is a hell of a state I’m returning you to your aunt in…” Tony muttered in the dark. "Hope Friday got word to her at least."

Acute pain at the sight of this kid he loved so much, this bright and passionate boy, churned through Tony, and once Peter had fallen asleep, it was joined by a protective anger. He couldn’t understand what Peter had been trying to tell him as he convulsed with sobs, but Tony made out enough to know that he was terrified and threatened and no one had helped him. None of the adults, the ones who should have stepped in, had defended him. With shame, Tony considered himself one of those who had failed Peter.

They had waited too long, Pepper and he, to challenge the apprenticeship contract. He knew that Jameson was unkind and mistrustful; he had not expected the man would actually expose Peter to danger, though. He should have known; he shouldn’t have waited -- and for the flimsy excuse of giving a gift. "He doesn't even celebrate Christmas," Tony chided himself.

Pepper was back at the jailhouse giving the police hell. He wished they could trade places. He knew how to raise a riot, to condemn and debate, and assert; but here, with Peter curled against him, Tony felt ill-equipped and fairly stupid. He was being called to do something completely different. It was his job to  _ comfort a child _ . Absolute terror seized him.

“Well, this is what I wanted, right? A child.” He shifted and Peter juddered, burying his face into Tony’s shoulder. His hands gripped Tony’s coat. “Oh God.” Tony thought then relaxed, trying to encourage himself (not something he was used to doing.) “Ready or not… He’s _depending_ on me now,” he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well shit. I added another chapter :p
> 
> I just want to give the right amount of time to ending. Sorry and thank you all so much for your support of this work! Let me know if there's anything you want to see with this series!
> 
> -Marli


	8. Merry Christmas, Mr. Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gives his gift to Peter and Peter gives him back the only thing he can afford. He doesn’t realize how valuable it will actually be to his friend.

Jarvis had noticed the little note flagging out from Pepper’s bird encyclopedia. Peter addressed the note to both Mrs. and Mr. Stark, and Jarvis decided to take it up with breakfast. Tony greeted him joyfully as always, as he fastened his cufflinks. “Good morning, J! Does this mean Happy has left to take the kid home?” Tony pouted a little. “That little saucebox left without saying goodbye…”

“I’m sure he would have said farewell, Sir, had you been awake.” Jarvis said.

Tony grinned in mock indignation. “Is that derision aimed at my sleeping habits?”

Jarvis deadpanned. “Not at all, Sir. I’m relieved to see you get any semblance of rest.”

Tony walked to the breakfast tray and saw the note. “What’s this?” He retrieved it and began to read. After a while he could not stifle a chuckle. “What a tender little thing.”

“A rare young man, indeed.” Jarvis said and Tony, knowing him well, detected his fondness for Peter. Nobody could resist the young potter, after all.

Tony held up the note. “How much would you wager that Pepper sheds a few tears when she reads this?”

“I shouldn’t make it a habit of betting against the lady of the house, Sir.”

“Well, it’s never profited me, that’s true,” Tony said and skimmed the paper again. He mused to Jarvis, flippantly. “Was I ever so silly-hearted?”

“Incredibly, sir,” Jarvis said, with traces of warm nostalgia, “you were.”

Tony looked up, surprised, then sniffed a little. “I don’t remember that.”

“No.” Jarvis agreed and there was a pregnant pause. After a moment, he said, “Mrs. Stark should return within two hours and you might see off Dr. Banner, Sir. He is the only guest remaining; I believe he was waiting to say goodbye before he went.”

“Where do I find so many sentimental souls?” Tony asked with a laugh.

“It seems you find each other, Sir.”

  
  
  


May and Peter’s bungalow in Queens was very small, but May had ensured it was cozy and clean so that when one was inside, it felt like a house in the country. May was endlessly proud that she earned the money to move herself and Peter from their apartment in the tenements, where there was nothing but tuberculosis and not even false hope. Even small, this house was much closer to the childhood home Peter deserved. He never complained, but May diligently worked for her “society” clients so she could afford to make their lives comfortable.

Happy had so much difficulty finding the little house in the dark that Tony woke Peter and asked if he could help guide them. Bleary-eyed, Peter looked out the carriage window and said, “I won’er if this’s wha’ fish see in dark wat’r.” He yawned and Tony sighed irritably.

“We’re trying to get you home, you little idiot.” Tony said. “Rub the sleep from your eyes and look. Does anything look familiar?”

“Lemme see,” Peter said and drowsily opened the carriage door. 

Tony seized him before he could tumble out onto the road moving below them. “Do you ever think before you act?” He chided and then called for Happy to stop the horses.

Eventually, Peter was able to peer around in the light of Happy’s lantern and he directed them to the small lot where the Parkers’ house sat tucked behind three tall complexes. Peter wrung his hands, worried what May would think of him. “I‘ve caused everyone so much trouble.” He agonized.

Tony just smiled and said, “True.” He ruffled Peter’s hair and it helped the boy relax a little.

Peter climbed the walkway to the front door; he sighed. The familiarity of his home embraced him and he didn’t care anymore if returning meant he must confess what he did to his aunt, as long as he could stay with her for a little while. The past week seemed a horribly long time and he wasn’t sure what it would take to recover from it. The door opened and May swooped outside.

“Peter!” She fussed, cupping his face, and he hugged her. Then, she turned to Tony who was coming up the walk. “Thank you for bringing him home, Mr. Stark.”

“Sorry to bring him in such a state.” Tony said.

“Aunt May—“ Peter said. He humbly shuffled and took a breath. “I lost my apprenticeship with Mr. Jameson. I’m sorry!”

“Lost it?” May asked.

Tony interrupted. “It’s been a full day. I would recommend putting him straight to bed.”

Despite everything, Peter was a little peeved by Tony’s choice of words. “Mr. Stark, I haven’t been ‘put to bed’ since—“

“I agree!” May said, pushing him inside. “Please, won’t you come warm yourselves before your long ride home? You, too!” She gestured to Happy. May had a way of bossing others into health and happiness. Happy bashfully complied, following Tony into the Parkers’ house.

Once inside, Peter was henned into his bedroom and told to wash and dress. May couldn’t be argued with, so Peter began to peel off the grimy shirt and trousers that had been ruined by the slick jailhouse floor. He caught the sight of blood on his sleeve at the elbow. It made the fabric stiff. Peter weakened. His stomach lurched and he didn’t want to be undressed anymore.

Ignoring the nausea, he rushed to pull on something else, anything, to cover himself and chase away the feeling of vulnerability. He would skip the long-johns, though he might regret it later. May had started the steam radiator in his room when word had gotten to her that Peter would be home that night, but it took a while for the room to warm.

Then, he saw the string-of-pearls, in its pot like a mermaid’s treasure, sitting on his dresser. A little peace touched his heart. He was so happy to see Pepper’s gift to him safely brought to his home. How had it gotten here? Today was so confusing.

He heard May bustling to entertain Tony and Happy. Never would he have guessed that Tony would be in his home. Then May said, “Ms. Friday and a young boy left not long ago. Ms. Friday said they needed to retrieve Mrs. Stark from the jailhouse?” This last statement was an anxious inquiry.

So that _was_ Pepper at the jailhouse; it hadn’t been his imagination.

Tony’s voice answered quickly. “Yes, she is just _reaching an understanding_ with the officers there. No need to worry. My Pepper can handle herself.”

“Yes,” May said with a small laugh. She sounded very relieved. 

“I take it all of his belongings arrived then?” Tony asked politely.

Peter was distracted from working the buttons of his nightshirt. Finally, he wondered how Tony and Pepper had discovered he was in jail. Had Mr. Jameson told May and May sent word to them? It didn’t make much sense. May would have come herself. Then again, Pepper knew so much about law. And, Tony held much influence in New York— and probably the whole nation or _world_. 

Their voices faded and Peter peeked out the door. He saw May and Tony talking in low tones.

Peter quickened, eager not to be left out, despite how tired he felt. May had told him to wash, but Peter decided to scrub away just the dirt that was not covered by the protective nightclothes… at least until the feeling of Westcott’s breath was out of his hair.

At the sound of the front door, Peter left his room and looked at the empty hall. Did Mr. Stark leave? Suddenly a flood of questions beset him. Could he make ceramics anymore? There wasn’t likely another ceramicist who would take him on if Jameson spread the word that he was a thief.

Would he still get to see the Starks? Would Tony come read to him and talk about chemistry and thermodynamics when he had no more need to learn about them? And, he would have no more work to catch their eye, nothing to show them, nothing they could buy— let alone have as a gift!

He began to feel awful again. The guard in the jail had been right: he brought this on himself. He lost everything because he’d been greedy and impulsive. He heard all the names he and May and his family had been called and hated how he’d let those people feel justified in their use.

Now he’d never get to craft the beautiful vases or figurines, or experiment with the components and colorants, or tease transformations from the clay and glazes through centuries-old alchemy.

In fact, he would need to find another job to help May and earn his share of the household expenses. What would he do? Clean houses, perhaps. He didn’t want to go to the factories.

May came into the hall holding a clean cloth and a bottle of antiseptic. She saw the dejected look on his face. “ _Sheifale_ , it’s late. Don’t worry. You’ll see Mr. Stark again soon.” She took him in her arms and led him back to his bedroom. He couldn’t help but lean into her.

As she cleaned the scrape under his chin with Acriflavine, May asked him gently about what had happened. He was able now, in the security she created, and no longer in the grip of adrenaline, to articulate more than he had with Tony. 

At first he was shy, ashamed, but as she met every confession with empathy, he told her more and more. Occasionally, her eyes flashed, angry at Mr. Jameson. Then, he told her about the jail cell.

“You never should have been put in such danger.” May said firmly. Peter nodded, but she commanded his attention. “I’m sorry, Peter! I shouldn’t have trusted that _schmuck_.”

“No, Aunt May. It’s my fault; I stole—”

“And that was foolish,” she said. “But your bad choice is nothing compared to what they did! If you stole from me, would I throw you in a cage? Or let some wild animal hurt you? Would Mr. or Mrs. Stark do those things, for that matter?”

That was unimaginable.

“Those men are hateful and evil. But,” she said and drew a steadying breath, “you’re safe here. I promise. I’m so proud of you, Peter!” Her hands smoothed his forehead and she kissed his cheeks. Then she stood and prepared to snuff the candle. “If you feel scared, come to me, no matter what time. I’ll chase off any creeps, nightmare or flesh and blood!”

Peter smiled and soon he was asleep, the smells and sounds and sensations of home enveloping him, and May’s promise standing watch over him.

  
  
  


_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stark,_

_I can’t describe what this wonderful visit has meant to me! I wish I had_

_beautiful words to at least tell you how thankful I am for your hospitality and generosity, but can’t seem to find any good enough and I must return to the shop. It’s just that you’ve made me feel so dear to you and I have so few friends and none like you! I will try so very hard to return your kindness toward me, though I know I never will be able. I hope this letter makes sense; I hardly ever write letters._

_Yours,_

_Peter Parker_

_P.S. - Thank you so much for lending me your bird encyclopedia, Mrs. Stark! I hope you like the lovebird design on your tiles; I based it on the beautiful paintings in the encyclopedia._

When Pepper read the note from Peter, which Tony eagerly handed to her as soon as she’d stepped into the parlor that afternoon, she did shed a couple silent tears. She folded the note and carried it with her, in the little pocket sewn into the waist of her afternoon dress. After lunch, she sat in her winter garden and read it again, twice.

  
  
  


“Wake up, Peter!” May called, tossing the blankets away from his chest. “Come now and wash your face and neck. Don’t forget behind your ears.”

Peter groaned. At the sound of her voice, he became irreversibly aware of the sunlight from the window. It shone across the white walls and linens, across the pearly planter with its opalescent gleam, making everything appear radiant. Even keeping his eyes closed wasn’t sufficient to hide from it. He sat up in his bed.

May bustled and spoke again. “I was trying to let you sleep, but I really thought you’d wake by now.”

“Huh? Wha’ time izzit?” He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t felt this happy to be home in a long time.

“A quarter until nine.” May said, throwing some clothes on the bed, across his legs. “I must run to the Thompsons’ and finish a fitting for the lady’s Christmas gown. I left some bagels and butter on the table. Hurry and get dressed! Your guest will be here soon.”

Peter’s mind couldn’t keep up with her. He looked at the clothes she’d deposited on him and noticed they were some of his best. “My— who?”

She didn’t wait to explain. Her coat and hat were already on. She called as she swept out his bedroom door: “There are two grapefruits and a tin of tea cookies you can offer. I must run to catch the streetcar!”

  
  
  


Peter had just wandered from his bedroom and to the dining room table when he heard a knock at the front door. He nearly leapt at the sound. Being at home during the daytime, without May, was such an unusual occurrence that he felt oddly giddy. He ran to answer the door. When he did, Tony greeted him on the doorstep.

Astonished, Peter said, “Mr. Stark! I didn’t know if I’d see you again!”

With a raised eyebrow, Tony asked, “Did you think I’d turn into a pumpkin?”

“I just,” Peter said, “I wasn’t sure, sir.”

“Well,” Tony said, breezily, “I may be easily distracted, but I don’t think I’d forget about you that quickly.” Peter smiled and they stood for a moment before Tony said, “So, may I come in?”

“Oh!” Peter said, tripping over himself to let Tony inside. “Yes, please, come in!” When Tony removed his hat, Peter took it and offered to take his coat and muffler, too.

“How are you feeling this morning, Pete?” Tony asked as Peter hung his coat, muffler, and hat on the coat rack. He dipped down to glimpse the underside of his chin. It looked much better, as did his lip.

“I’m fine, sir. Thank you for seeing me home last night.” Peter said. He was trying to gain his confidence as a host, but was floundering a little. This visit felt so much more formal than when Tony would visit at the workshop. He wished they were there instead; he could sit at the wheel and talk to Tony normally. “Are you well this morning?”

That earned an amused look from Tony, but he answered naturally. “I am, thanks. Sorry to have taken off last night without saying farewell, but I thought you were better off getting some rest.” Tony sniffed then and took something small from his pocket. “I wanted to give you your gift, as discussed. Here you go!”

Peter held out his hand and accepted a small, folded rectangle of gift-wrapping paper. It was the same crepe paper that Peter found so lovely. When he saw it, he laughed. The bubbly sound filled the hall. “Thank you, Mr. Stark!”

Tony smiled at him as Peter examined the paper. He rocked on his heels for a moment. “I don’t suppose I could ask you for a cup of coffee?” He asked.

“Of course!” Peter flustered. He scrambled for the kitchen, not noticing Tony’s gentle smirk. “I’m so sorry! Let me start some water.”

In the kitchen, Peter searched for the kettle. He realized May would have used it earlier for her own breakfast tea. He scrambled to where the stove stood on the far wall. His every motion slowed, however, as he looked across the kitchen to the little scullery. Finally, he stopped completely.

A kiln stood, installed in the scullery, beside the small sink where there had been an assortment of laundering items stored. The kiln was gas-fueled, like he was used to, and Peter judged that it should allow for a high-fire.

Stepping closer, Peter could see wooden boxes sitting a safe distance from the kiln. Those boxes, he knew, held clay. The type was printed in stencil letters on the side of the boxes. A pottery wheel sat in front of the sink. Beyond that was a small set of shelves with jars of what Peter knew were different components for glazes.

Peter was breathless.

Moving to the wheel, he reached out and absently laid his hand on it. He saw another small rectangle of gift wrapping paper. This one, he realized, had been folded into a tiny envelope. Unfolding it, he read the note, scrawled in pencil, inside: 

“Everything you fire in this kiln will belong to you. - T.S.”

Peter gripped the paper with both thumbs. They began to hold the paper more and more tightly. Tears fell as his breath returned, shallow and quick. He drank down his bottom lip then turned toward the doorway. “Mr. Stark—?”

He walked back into the dining room, peering toward the hall. Tony was gone. “Mr. Stark?” He spoke to the empty room in a nearly frantic voice. He noticed the man’s coat, hat, and muffler were removed from the coat rack.

Peter glanced at the kitchen door. Beyond it was the kiln-- his kiln, his pottery wheel, his clay -- a gift so monumental he could hardly comprehend it. He looked at the vacant room and again at the door. Anxiously, Peter ran a hand through his hair. Whispering to himself, he said, “I can’t accept...” He sighed helplessly. Then, he bolted out of the front door, grabbing at his outer clothes from the hook. However, he only managed to hold onto his hat as he sprinted outside. The others fell to the floor.

The lane was quiet; the usual sounds had been absorbed by the snow. He called for Tony. Making his best guess at Tony’s direction, he ran down the street. The thin winter air sliced in and out of his lungs and he was soon winded. He reached a little bridge over an aqueduct, head down, pushing himself. He jogged past a tall horse and figure who leaning on the railing. Realizing it was Tony, he tried to regain his legs, which clumsily ground to a halt beneath him.

Tony smiled, still gazing over the dark slush below. “Well, Mr. Parker, I had every intention of avoiding that tearful face of yours.” He sighed and stood up straight. “But then I decided to wait because I figured you were foolish enough to run after me...” 

He turned and saw Peter. “And without a coat, scarf, or gloves like a damn imbecile!” He admonished, unwrapping the muffler from his own neck. He began to coil it around Peter, looping it from the very end so it would reach up to his ears.

Peter tried to talk as Tony wrapped loop after loop higher over his chin. “Mr. Stark — Mr. Stark! Thank you for your gift, but it’s—” By this time the thick muffler covered his mouth and Tony was looking at him with immense entertainment. Peter jerked the woven yarn back down. “— It’s _too_ generous. I can’t accept it, sir!”

Tony nodded. “I also guessed you’d be foolish enough to say that. Well, Pete, it seems you have two choices: tear it out from the wall and return everything or...” He emphasized the rest of his line with a firm incline of his head toward the young man. “Consider this a business investment on my part.”

“What do you mean?”

“Be my apprentice and work for me.”

Peter was shocked. He was speechless long enough that Tony was able to reposition the muffler over his mouth and ears. He smirked. “I have far more interesting projects to _challenge_ that budding genius of yours. True, I’m not an _artist_ , but I’m in a position to accommodate your studies.” His voice lowered. “And I wouldn’t always be over you, trying to make you into a tiger.”

“A tiger, sir?”

Tony stepped closer, taking a confidential countenance. “I wouldn’t leave any stripes on your back.” He said quietly. Peter choked. He lowered his chin, wondering how Tony found out, mortified that he may have witnessed such a scene.

“You’re right. That metaphor was a bit labored.” Tony grimaced. “Not one of my best.” 

Peter didn’t speak; his mind was full.

“You haven’t given me an answer, so I’ll just keep talking. The apprenticeship will provide food and board—“ He held up a hand in reassurance. “You may remain at your own home. That’s where the kiln is installed after all; but, I can provide a monthly allotment for rent and groceries. Of course, whenever you’re over to see us, the kitchen is yours. 

“You may have every shabbat and all your people’s holidays off, with pay. I’m going to keep talking until you accept.” He warned and Peter gaped, unleashing the sob that had bubbled up at Tony’s kindness. “I will take you to see the great works of Brussels and Morocco and Paris... Sixty percent of the profit is yours, the rest goes toward business expenses—”

“I accept!” Peter pulled the muffler down from his mouth and shouted. “For god’s sake, I accept. Stop before you promise me half of your estate.” He couldn’t help but laugh then, a little out of control.

Tony gazed at him and smiled. “Well,” he said finally, with a sniff, “I’ll be going then.” He turned to his horse and spoke to it.

“Mr. Stark, wait! I wanted to give you a gift as well! But, I, well, how could I, after what you’ve given me—”

“Don’t let it worry you, kid.” Tony said and attempted to lead the horse away from the walls of the bridge..

Peter flung himself in Tony’s path. “No, sir! Please! I must give you something. You’ve given me so much and I’m never going to be able to match it. And the way you’ve treated me like a friend even though no one else ever has-- And I tried to _make_ you something and I worked so very hard, sir, I honestly did, and saved my money and dug up clay from the river and built my own kiln in the alley, but I failed so miserably--”

Tony interrupted angrily: “You went digging in the river when it was below freezing? Have you _lost your mind_?”

However, Peter couldn’t stop. His thoughts were a runaway train and they all charged out indiscriminately in a passion of sorrow and affection between which he could no longer distinguish the difference. “I was so lonely! Mr. Stark, I was so lonely before you began visiting me and you’ve supported all my work and studies and I never would have learned so many things about chemistry or -- or _anything_ without you. And I want so much to show you that I love you, sir. But, I can only think of one thing I could possibly give you, but, but—.”

Through this speech, Peter didn’t see the look of emotion on Tony’s face. Tony wasn’t sure how much more he could take. “Pete!” He finally broke through his fretful chatter. Tony sighed, at a complete loss of what to say to him.

Peter stood looking at him through a flood of tears. “Goddamn it, this is what I was trying to avoid.” Tony griped and took out his handkerchief. He dabbed at Peter’s eyes and Peter took the handkerchief. Tony tried to reason with him. “Look, kid, I still have an hour’s ride back to my home, so… Give me something or don’t; but it is _very cold_ out. And we should both get out of the wind.”

Peter muttered shyly, seeming to have made his decision: “You’re not going to like it.”

Tony burst out: “Peter, it doesn’t matter! If you want to give me a gift, then I want you to - no matter what it is. Whatever makes you feel better and lets me _go home_ . _I’m_ not used to digging up river clay in the subzero weather.”

Peter seemed to shrink. Face lowered, he sighed and shuffled up to Tony. Then, his eyes peered up at Tony over the muffler. Tony returned the gaze expectantly, a little confounded by Peter’s expression. In one swift, decisive motion, Peter put a hand on Tony’s shoulder, rolled up onto his toes, and kissed Tony’s cheek.

Tony’s eyes swelled. Peter quickly withdrew. He seemed to tremor and began to tap his foot while waiting for Tony’s inevitable reaction. Tony was speechless, but worked out a response clumsily: “Well. I... wasn’t expecting that.”

Peter groaned and pulled his hat down as far as he could over his eyes. “My-my Papa, he--” Peter gulped down a huge breath. Tony politely hummed, giving him permission to continue his explanation. “My family has never had money for gifts. My parents worked hard to get me small things from time to time and I always wanted to give them something back! I would ask my Papa what he wanted for his birthday and he would tell me, ‘just a kiss on the cheek from you.’ 

“Every year, that’s what he asked for. Then, when he and Mama got sick and… I went to live with Ben and May, they would say the same. That all they wanted was a kiss on the cheek. They knew it’s what Papa said.” He dropped his hands; the brim of the hat rose slightly and Tony saw his eyes again; they were blushing with tears. “And besides, it’s all I could afford to give.” He ended, miserably.

Trying to contain the powerful surge of emotion in his chest, Tony breathed for a moment. Once the thumping of his heart was quiet, Peter still had not attempted to meet his gaze. He tapped the kid’s chin and the pitiful eyes met his.

“Thank you, Pete.” Tony said genuinely. “No one has ever given me a gift like that. I doubt there’s another like it in the world.” He placed a hand on top of Peter’s cap and was sorry he couldn’t ruffle his curls. Then Peter looked at him and smiled with such pure gratitude that Tony had to look away. He cleared his throat. “Well then, I expect to see you at my estate on the 26th to discuss logistics.”

“Yes, sir!” Peter piped.

Tony took the reigns of his horse’s bridle and muttered to it, “This way, dummy.” Then, he said goodbye to Peter.

“Goodbye,” Peter said, then added: “Merry Christmas, Mr. Stark!”


	9. Continuation Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a late note from the author.
> 
> Also— thank you all so very much for 200+ kudos! I loved writing this and am happy to see others enjoy immersing in the world I created.

Hello to everyone who subscribed to the story!

I want to reiterate my sincere gratitude that you read this story and spent time in this world.

A special thank you to those who went out of their ways to leave comments for me! I am honored and humbled!

It occurred to me that I never posted to say that this series continues with the story “[You Will Rise Up, Free and Easy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503787/chapters/53774938)” which is here on AO3. I would love if you read it! :)

Have a wonderful day and be well.


End file.
